


Project Fulcrum

by WandersUnderStarlight



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-10-24 08:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10738074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandersUnderStarlight/pseuds/WandersUnderStarlight
Summary: They figured out the Sigma code. The bots they made with it aren't what you would call "stable".





	1. Waking From Another Crash

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a one-shot that kermit-flailed out of my control.  
> :blah: -comm speak

Prowl woke to the familiar ceiling of the medbay in the labs. He could feel the two comforting frames of his cohort-mates pressed up on either side of him and their respective sibling bonds in his spark, helping his systems to rebalance themselves.

“You nearly fried something important this time.” Smokescreen said from his left. :What did you zone on?:

“I’m sure Pharma was less than pleased,” Prowl commented dryly. :My tac-net tangented on the probability of how many bots would be affected by his assassination.:

Smokescreen smirked. “He’ll be away for a while. We kicked him out by being annoying as possible.” :Ouch. You alright?:

“Yeah, I talked him right out the door. I think he actually turned off his audio receptors this time because he didn’t even react when I started calling him names. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe taught me some new good ones.” Bluestreak piped up, though it was more subdued than usual so Prowl though he might still be a bit drained from the mission. :You really scared us this time, big brother.:

:My apologies.: He didn’t promise that it wouldn’t happen again. They all knew such a promise would be a lie.

:Just a warning,: Smokescreen cautioned, :rumor is the higher ups already have another group of ‘candidates’ for you to meet once you’re up and declared functional again.:

:I suppose I ought to ‘escape’ for a bit then, before they find me.: 

He could feel both of his brothers’ amusement. By escape, of course, he meant sneaking out of the lab they called home to visit his favorite bar. He didn’t fool himself into thinking that their keepers at CRDAA didn’t know where he was going. The Sigma-Series operatives were too valuable to just let them disappear with no warning.

But getting past the security to the outside was one of the ways that Prowl kept himself sane without a Fulcrum, so they let him do it. Seeing as how he was one of the three surviving C-Series operatives, and his most recent crash, he knew the organization would be pushing even more insistently to get him to accept a Fulcrum.

The founders of CRDAA (the Cybertronian Research Division of Advanced Abilities) had discovered the actual code for Sigma potential in mechs. The Sigma-Series Project had attempted and succeeded in manually installing that code in normal bots to produce Sigma abilities. Beginning with the A-Series, they had used Kaonite sparklings; miner frames. The theory had been that the more robust frames would give the project a better chance of success. The B-Series had changed frame-type to Altihexians, the artisan frames seemingly adaptable to the foreign code. The C-Series had been a near failure as the Praxian sparkling frames had proved to be delicate on a circutry level. And finally, the D-Series tested the limits of the Iaconian science frames. There were rumors that the next E-Series would be attempted with Vosnians, though there were concerns that it would end like the C-Series since the frame-types were distantly related. 

And those were just the challenges with the frames. The other half of the Sigma-code puzzle was hoping the processor inside the frame could take the strain. Installing such powerful abilities had a range of side effects. The successfully Sigma-integrated mechs tended to go insane (Feral was the polite term the CRDAA used) without some way to focus their attention away from their abilities.

That was where the Fulcrums came in.

Before the Fulcrums had been conceived of, each of the Sigma-Series operatives had their own ways of dealing with the Sigma induced over-influx of data to their neural nets. Small habits they indulged in just to try to keep themselves from tipping over the edge of insanity. 

Smokescreen had gambled addictively, attempting to find any game that could catch him using his tactical diversionary abilities to cheat. Sometimes to his own detriment. 

Bluestreak, arguably the most stable of the three C-Series, continuously ran his vocalizer about whatever crossed his processor even in recharge. He did it to relieve the high levels of energy constantly running through his frame that he would channel into his sniper rifle to achieve impossible shots. With nothing to focus it on, the energy would just build higher and higher until he fried something important. 

The first Fulcrum had been found by accident. One of the A-Series had gone Feral and decimated a large swath of the lab. His Sigma ability was that he could both transform into a tank, and also pack nearly all of his extra body mass away into subspace to transform into a massively powerful gun. However this dual transformation had splintered something in his processor. The usually charismatic Megatron would occasionally fall into bouts of violent paranoia calling himself “Galvatron”. 

Prowl had been one of the Sigma-Series operatives dispatched to tracked him down. When they finally found him, he’d been in the deep archives calmly curled around a half-terrified data-clerk named Orion who’d been shakily reading aloud to him from a history text. With Megatron lucid and purring under Orion’s slightly trembling servos, the CRDAA immediately set about studying what the frag was going on. Someone had coined the term Fulcrum and it had stuck.

They quickly learned that each operative needed their own Fulcrum (except for one very rare circumstance), as Megatron had been pushed back towards madness when they attempted to use Orion to center the other operatives. Soon, the other Sigma-Series mechs were admitting to being drawn to certain mechs they had interacted with. The CRDAA also learned that in most cases the operatives and Fulcrums formed intimate relationships. After which, Project Fulcrum, as it had been labelled, had turned into something of a Sigma-Series dating service. No one had yet been able to quantify just what it was that made the operatives go for certain mechs so their keepers would continually introduce candidates to the unmatched operatives hoping to spark something.

Bluestreak had been one of the first after Megatron to find his Fulcrum, or _Fulcrums_ as it were. He’d formed a romantic relationship with the Twins, a pair of split-spark twins from the B-Series whose shared Sigma ability allowed them to fight with massive strength in perfect unison. In a small twist, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had claimed him as their Fulcrum as well. It worked for them. The Twins focused their destructive energies into protecting Bluestreak and he, in turn gave them love and affection. They also had enough stamina between the two of them to keep up with his energetic interfacing habits. It was a good way to get rid of his excess energy.

Just recently Smokescreen had fixated on one of the new lab scientist. It might have been because the little red microscope had actually caught him cheating and called him out on it, but, frustratingly, Smokescreen couldn’t really put why into words. Considering how the organization had stopped offering mechs for him to meet, it seemed as if they expected him to claim the scientist as his Fulcrum. And Prowl agreed it was likely to happen. So far Smokescreen had kept his relationship with Perceptor platonic, but the scientist had been sent out of the lab for some extended conference for cycles now and Smokescreen was showing signs of withdrawal. He was being surly and snappish to everyone but his cohort-mates and taking more risks on missions. Prowl predicted the relationship would tip into intimacy when Perceptor returned. And Prowl’s predictions usually came to fruition.

Prowl had yet to find a compatible Fulcrum. The bots the keepers kept sending to him were either incredibly dull, far too interested in his advanced pre-cog processors, or couldn’t deal with his “quirks” as some of the scientists had called them. His advanced pre-cog tac-net constantly ran simulations on the world around him, but it could sometimes get stuck on a looping tangent that caused his processor to crash and force a hard reboot. He combatted this by limiting his interactions to his cohort-mates and their Fulcrums. It often got him labeled as “cold” and “unsociable”, but better those labels than constantly waking up in the infirmary. But he needed new influxes of data to keep his processor busy or he started slipping into psychosis.

Thus the trips to his favorite oil house.

:You had better slip out soon.: Smokescreen said getting off the berth and stretching. :I hear this bunch is going to be accompanied by old mono-optic himself.:

:Yeah! Go have fun. We’ll see you when you get back.: Bluestreak gave him a quick chevron nuzzle before also vacating the berth. He moved to leave. "I have to go prove to Sideswipe and Sunstreaker that I’m fine now. They’re getting antsy."

Prowl nodded and then offered, as always, to Smokescreen, :You are welcome to join me, if you wish.:

:Nah. This is your indulgence.: Smokescreen declined. :Besides, Percy might be coming back today. I want to be here in case he does.:

Prowl frowned. Smokescreen was starting to say that every day and there was no arguing with him. Definite signs of withdrawal. He hoped Perceptor returned soon.


	2. Solitude and Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl has know Jazz for a while, but now they actually meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I accidentally made Prowl Sherlock... eh, it works.  
> :blah.: -comm. speak

The dim atmosphere of the bar was a balm on Prowl’s acute, hypersensitive neural net. It was really the last place any of the bots involved in the CRDAA would have expected him to go. But here he could let his processors wander, extrapolating the lives and motivations of the normal bots around him with no consequences. 

He sipped his mildly acidic energon (his regular drink, the bartender didn’t even ask anymore, just readied it for him when he arrived) and let his gaze float over the bots present.

Introvert. Medic-in-training. Came to the oil house to silence his friend’s complaining that he never gets out. Secretly in love with his friend.

Bonded pair. One or more sparklings at home being watched by sitter for the first time. Sire is in construction, celebrating a promotion. Carrier is a maintenance bot- weighing the pros and cons of changing companies for better position.

Mech with a conjunx. Insecure in his relationship, contemplating cheating with the mech he is currently speaking with.

On and on until he’d profiled the dozen or so mechs and femmes in the establishment. He felt his tac-net settle with the new information. Tension bled out of his cables. This small oil house with its muted atmosphere and unquestioning mechs was his sanctuary. And also…

He glanced at the tiny stage in the corner of the room and took in the house musician as he’d done many times in the past. Jazz sat strumming his electro-sitar and humming a beautiful melody. Prowl had been drawn to the talented Polyhexian since the moment he’d first heard him sing. That very first song had, in fact, pulled him out of an impending crash.

He’d allowed his work to follow him to his place of respite and his processor had tried to lock. But fortunately for him, the bar owner had just hired a new musician. One that fit the atmosphere of his establishment better than the last had.

Jazz’s smooth, rich tenor had cut through the data cycling through Prowl’s overactive tac-net, catching and holding his attention long enough for his simulators to discard the loop as unnecessary. The song had been compelling; so much so that his tac-net hadn’t immediately processed the Polyhexian. 

A sparked sonic frame, but with extensive musical training as well. He was talented enough to play in more upscale establishments, but chose to play here. Why…? He was content here, but there was a kinetic undertone to him that Prowl’s processor could only tag as “potential”. Potential what? Prowl had been intrigued by the mech ever since.

Maybe it was the earlier crash he’d suffered, or maybe it was the thought of meeting more mechs wanting to be his Fulcrum, but Prowl decided that tonight was going to be the night he introduced himself.

Even if he made a complete aft of himself.

Which was a high probability. Approximately 96.885%, actually.

He’d been blunt to the point of rudeness ever since he’d first woken in the growing tank where he’d started life. The caretakers had thought the frank speaking of his sparkling self was cute until he’d started telling them things about themselves that he shouldn’t have know. Then it became unsettling. Even the other Sigma-series operatives thought his insight and “spark piercing” optics were perturbing. All but his cohort and, strangely enough, Megatron, found him unsettling.

He waited until Jazz had finished his last set of the night to approach. The musician was chatting with another patron as he packed up his instruments (another regular, mech with a conjunx, waiting for the special moment to propose, worked as a paralegal for one of the big firms in town). After a few breems the other mech walked away.

Prowl wracked his processors. How could he open a conversation? A compliment on Jazz’s music? An observation about the oil house? Before his tac-net could wander too far he was brought back to the present by Jazz’s melodic voice.

“Hey mech, ya alright?”

Prowl shuttered his optics in a blink and focused on the concerned mech in front of him.

“Forgive me, I was just contemplating what compliment I could give in order to open a discussion of how to spend more time with you.”

This was why many mechs thought he had no tact and for a moment he feared that he’d once again been too forward, but the visored mech merely laughed in gentle amusement.

“Ain’t ya a charmer?”

That reaction had been unexpected, and pleasant. Nervousness left his frame at the mech’s easy-going attitude.

“Not really. I have, in fact, been informed that I am hopeless in social situations.”

That elicited another musical laugh. “Ya’re doin’ jus’ fine, mech. My name’s Jazz.”

“I know. I come here quite often and admit to being a bit of a fan. I am Prowl.”

“Thought ya looked familiar. Nice t’ meet’cha finally. Tell ya what, if ya help me put away my equipment we can get a drink t’gether. Sound fair?”

Prowl smiled. “Yes.”

Together they put the electo-sitar and the various percussion instruments into cases, and shut off the synth, rolling it into the corner. Jazz didn’t seem to mind Prowl’s taciturn nature, grinning and thanking him when they got done. When they sat down, the bartender had energon ready and waiting for them; Prowl’s normal acidic and something sweet and silver based for Jazz (good for the vocalizer after a night of performing).

“So, tell me abou’ yarself?” It was more of a friendly suggestion than anything else.

“There’s not much to tell. I’m an analyst for the government.” That was his usual cover story on missions, and sort of true. There actually wasn’t much he could tell Jazz about himself. Technically, he and the other Sigma-series operatives didn’t exist. Frag, this had been a bad idea. Prowl mentally scrambled for something else to say.

“How long did you live in Ibex after leaving Polyhex?”

Jazz tilted his head curiously. “‘Ow did ya know I lived in Ibex b’fore movin’ t’ Iacon?”

“I didn’t, I just… observed and extrapolated. Your accent marks you a mech sparked and raised in Polyhex, but you used Ibexian glyphs every now and then. The glyph are used unconsciously denoting that you spent enough time in the culture for using them to become second nature.”

Jazz sipped his energon with a contemplative little smile. “Huh, well, when ya put it tha’ way it seems obvious. And yar right. I spent my apprenticeship in Ibex.” He put his chin on his servo. “So… at the risk of soundin’ vain, what else can ya observe about me?”

Prowl felt momentary apprehension, but… Jazz had asked so…

“You’re a sparked sonic frame from Polyhex, again, the accent points to that. I can tell you’re sparked because of old marks on your protoform from prior frame upgrades. A cold-built mech would not have those. Your first instrument was the elecro-sitar. The one you use now, actually, given to you by your brother. You still favor it, using it 48% more than your other instruments when performing. There’s an etching on the inside of your sitar case that says “To: Jazzy, From: Rico”. Judging from the wear and tear on the case and sitar, it was given to you new and has aged with you. The glyphs are written in a sparkling-like manner consistent with the age you would have been when it was given to you, so given by a sibling rather than a creator.

“As you told me, you apprenticed in Ibex. There you got into the racing culture, as evidenced by the alt you chose for your final upgrade, which would have happened while you were living there. You decided to come to Iacon based on the networking you achieved in your apprenticeship. You likely met and formed a positive, friendly relationship with the bartender of this oil house during one of the races you participated in while still in Ibex.”

By this point Jazz’s visor was bright with astonishment and Prowl forced himself to stop before he said anything else.

“Tha’... was amazin’.” Jazz murmured.

No one had ever praised his abilities before. The personnel at the organization and the other operatives just expected it of him. His circuits warmed with pleasure. He gave a small bashful smile. “It’s just analytics. I did bring up Ibex for a reason, earlier. It is a city to which I have never travelled. I am curious about their racing culture.”

Jazz smiled back at him and launched into a colorful story (“adventure” he called it) about one of the races he had been a part of back in his apprenticeship cycles. Prowl listened, enraptured, his processors humming peacefully in the background.

The visored mech had started in on a second story after the first, at Prowl’s request, when the Praxian’s comm. went off.

Prowl frowned. “Apologies, Jazz, I must take this.”

“No problem,” Jazz said, seemingly unperturbed that he’d been interrupted.

:Prowl here.: 

:Sorry to cut your cycle short,: Smokescreen said unhappily, :but we have a mission. Briefing in a joor.:

Prowl’s doorwings gave an aggravated flick. :Already?:

:Yeah, apparently it's priority one.: 

:Understood. Prowl out.: 

“Is somethin’ wrong?” Jazz asked when it became apparent that Prowl was not longer on his private comm. and also annoyed.

“That was my work. I’m afraid I must be going.” he said regretfully.

Jazz leaned back in his chair with a little pout. “Aw, tha’s a bummer. Maybe we can chat again when ya come back another cycle?”

Prowl smiled feeling his irritation melt away. “I would like that. I look forward to hearing the end of your, ah, ‘adventure’.”

Jazz laughed cheerfully, “It’s a good one, I promise! Then ya can tell me ‘bout some of yars.”

Prowl felt a slight twinge of guilt that most of the life experiences he would tell Jazz about would be heavily edited or outright lies. But it would be worth the time spent with the visored mech. He bade Jazz a good cycle and left.

Two blocks away from the oil house, an unmarked transport pulled in front of him on the empty roadway and slid the back hatch open, ramp lowering. He drove up the ramp and let it carry him back to the labs.


	3. An Easy Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operatives in action and a little Smokescreen/Perceptor  
> More Prowl/Jazz in the next chapter  
> :Blah.:- comm. speak

The operatives crept along the darkened corridor. Prowl watched their progress through Reflector’s three auxiliary optical feeds playing on the holographic display in front of him. During missions the three hive-processored bots answered to their alt-mode name rather than their individual designations. The 3-D miniaturized map of the facility to his right twisted and turned with every minute shift of his servo. 

:Smokescreen, door to your left. Five kliks.:

His cohort mate paused holding his servo up. The other operatives froze behind him. Smokescreen broke from the formation and made it to the door just as it opened. He tagged the emerging bot with an elecro-disruptor before the mech even knew there were others in the corridor. Smokescreen caught him and lowered him to the floor silently.

:Is this the mech?:

:Negative, keep moving.:

Smokescreen carried the mech back into his room and put him on the berth, then collected his electro-disruptor and slipped back out the door, remote triggering it to shut and lock behind him. The operatives continued down the hallway. Prowl magnified their position on the map and tapped the holo display to bring up the information gathered on their target.

:Left at the junction. Third door.:

Formation tightening as they neared their end goal, the operatives followed his instructions, surrounding the door. Smokescreen hacked into the fire suppression system and tweaked the chemical mixture until it became a sedation gas, then he set the fire suppression system off silently in the room behind the still-closed door. They waited twenty kliks for the gas to take effect and then dissipate before opening the door. Smokescreen made a quick sweep of the room and signaled for Chromedome to enter. The tall mech approached the unconscious mech on the recharge berth.

:Prowl?:

:Target confirmed.: Prowl responded.

Chromedome’s digits transformed into needles and he delicately set them into the seams of the mech’s helm. Infiltrating the mech’s processors. His yellow optical band flickered with static as he searched for the memories he was to steal and then erased his presence from the mech’s systems. It took precisely seven breems.

They left as silently as they came.

:Bluestreak, is the exit clear?: Prowl asked.

:Exit clear.: His cohort-mate said tightly. The strain of staying still and silent evident in his voice over the comm. Prowl pulled up another camera view from one of the street cameras he’d remoted into and would wipe later. He could see the gunner on the rooftop across from the building the operatives were currently in. He looked like he was vibrating with suppressed energy.

Prowl frowned. Bluestreak should not have been on this mission, his presence had been unnecessary. Unfortunately, Prowl was not in charge of mission rosters, just executing the ones he was sent on.

The operatives converged back into the transport. Chromedome immediately went to the nearest console and began to download the memories he’d retrieved; dense packets of scientific data. The sooner he got those out of his helm, the better. Bluestreak started chattering in a stuttering voice to Smokescreen the moment they were clear. Excess energy spitting static and tiny curls of electricity from his vocalizer and seams. The Reflector mechs silently sat together on the floor. Prowl turned off the holographic displays and forcibly shut down the processor loops set on predicting the movements of the mechs in the apartment complex. His tac-net threw up warnings that doing such could compromise the mission and sent a query to continue. 

While interesting, the loops would lead to a processor crash and he preferred not to visit Pharma’s questionable hospitality in medical again so soon. He needed to distract himself. On a whim, Prowl pulled up a memory file of Jazz performing and focused his attention on it.

The diversion lasted until the transport landed back at the CRDAA owned labs.

Chromedome was always churlish after a memory extraction and this one had been particularly taxing in its scale of complexity and the speed at which he’d pulled the information. He strode silently down the ramp of the transport to where his Fulcrum was waiting for him. Rewind didn’t even make a token protest when the larger mech scooped up his smaller lover with barely a pause and stalked off towards their quarters. Merely waved reassuringly at the worried security mechs.

Bluestreak scurried into the waiting arms of the Twins, words streaming unchecked from his vocalizer. The nearly incoherent babbling cutting off for half a klik as first a golden helm and then a red helm dipped to kiss the gunner hello. They herded him off quickly, hopefully to make use of their soundproofed quarters. Bluestreak’s charge would be dangerously high by now. Prowl frowned again; worried for his cohort-mate, but his Fulcrums would take care of him.

The Reflector mechs did not have a Fulcrum yet. They wandered away from the tarmac in a tight knot to do whatever it was mentally that they needed to do to gain their individuality again.

It looked like Smokescreen was about to wander off, possibly to the rec room to see if he could con somebot into playing a game with him, when he was stopped by Rhodium. The lilac and silver femme had been one of the scientists that had been involved with the project from the beginning of the C-Series. The three Praxians had something like a creator-creation bond with her.

“Perceptor returned while you were on your mission.” She said without preamble.

Prowl could see the way that Smokescreen’s entire countenance shifted from slouched indifference to predatory intent. Doorwings flaring as if he was attempting to pick up traces of the other mech. It looked like Smokescreen was done dancing around the Fulcrum issue. Making an official claim would prevent Perceptor from being sent out for extended periods. Any Sigma-series mech would openly admit to being selfish enough to want such a thing.

She patted his shoulder pauldron, “He’ll be down in his office.”

With a single nod to her and Prowl, he was gone.

“So, what are the chances that poor, oblivious Perceptor is going to be in for a shock in the next ten breems?” Rhodium asked with a smirk.

“As ironic as that statement is; 92.2%” Prowl answered promptly.

 

Returning home from the scientific conference to find he’d been scheduled for mandatory leave had thrown Preceptor for a loop, but as it had been signed off by the director himself, he’d had no choice but to take the time off. He had plenty of personal experiments at home to tinker with. Though it bothered him a bit that he’d not been permitted to send any messages to his colleagues while he was away. 

But now he was back in his office in the CRDAA labs, organizing notes and getting ready for the next cycle. Strange how he felt more comfortable here than at his own apartment. It might have had something to do with a certain Sigma-series mech that came to keep him company. Well, more like bother him while he was working, but the distraction was usually welcome. Though he wasn’t really sure what kept the mech coming back.

Perceptor set himself a reminder to go see him later when he’d come back from whatever mission he’d been sent on. He stood in front of his desk and stacked a few data pads neatly. Something clanked to the floor behind him. Perceptor turned to the sound, but saw nothing. He shuttered his optics to refocus. Turning back to his desk he startled at the sudden appearance of a bot in his chair where there hadn’t been one a klik ago. He slapped a servo over his chestplates, spark beating with fright.

“Ack! Smokescreen! What have I told you about sneaking up on me?”

The blue and red mech sprawled comfortably in the seat. He grinned lazily at Perceptor. “I missed you, Percy. You wanna play a game?”

Ah, Smokescreen was still deep in his mission protocols, his processor still looking for ways to deceive. The easiest way to both indulge and calm those protocols was by gambling. Specifically, cheating while gambling.

Perceptor crossed his arms over his chestplates, “Are you going to play fair?”

“Mmmaybe. You gonna keep me honest, Percy?”

“Well, of course! I’m not going to _let_ you cheat!”

The mech’s optics flashed with keen interest. “Heh. You can always see right through me, can’t you, Percy?”

Something was wrong. Perceptor had helped the mech come out of a post-mission before, multiple times, actually, and he’d never acted like this before. Smokescreen almost seemed overcharged. But they would have never let him go on a mission is such a state.

“Are you alright?” Perceptor stepped around the desk close enough to place his servo on Smokescreen’s chevroned helm, worriedly searching for excess heat. Maybe the mech had picked up a virus. The blue and red mech purred under his touch. “Do I need to call medical? You’re acting-EEP!”

A yank and a twist of bodies suddenly found Perceptor straddling the mech in his office chair. He shakily rebalanced himself by using the relative stability of Smokescreen’s pauldrons. One of Smokescreen’s arms wound around his waist, servo digging gently into a seam while the other servo pet his scope with distracting strokes.

“I just need you,” Smokescreen said huskily. “You’ve always been able to see me… my Fulcrum.”

“F-f-fulcrum? B-but I’m j-just-”

“Mine? Please?” Smokescreen drew their faceplates closer together. “Please.” He vented across Preceptor’s dermas and ran his digits down his scope.

“Ch-cheater.” Perceptor gasped.

That earned him a dark chuckle. “Is that a yes?”

It wasn’t fair how Smokescreen seemed to know all of his sensitive spots.

“I… I’ll try. But I don’t know if-”

He was cut off by a pair of dermas claiming his own.


	4. Bad Timing and Bad Moods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny intro for Shockwave and more small talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jazz's song- "Solo por ti" by Josh Groban

Meeting prospective Fulcrums was always an awkward prospect for Prowl. CRDAA director Shockwave’s presence just added tension to an already unappealing process. Having just recovered from a crash the previous cycle and summarily being sent out again so quickly meant that Prowl had nearly no patience for such a meeting. 

The conference room in the labs was gray and bare of distractions. Shockwave had situated himself in the corner under the camera with a datapad on which he continually tapped notes. Prowl was seated at the large circular table, hiding his annoyance behind a formal mask of indifference. He’d already sent the first few candidates scurrying from the conference room in horror and dismay as he ruthlessly stripped their pasts bare to lay out before them in a cold calculating voice.

“Your processor continues to be quite impressive.” Shockwave commented casually optic seemingly not leaving the datapad. The continual tapping was starting to grate on Prowl’s sensor net. “Truly, it is quite a spectacle to behold when you choose to unleash it.”

Prowl sent the mech a mild glare. “This interview is pointless. I am not in the right mood to undergo meeting prospective Fulcrums at this time.”

“On the contrary,” Shockwave countered, “your systems are stressed. Forcing you to meet prospects now may encourage a spontaneous match as your systems seek to rebalance themselves.”

Prowl had inferred that motive before they had even started, but having Shockwave state it merely as if it was to be a commonality nearly made Prowl’s processor glitch and crash right then. The glare intensified. “We are done here,” Prowl snarled, standing and exiting the room. He ignored the tittering of the scientists around him as he stalked out of the labs to his hab suite.

He had never liked director Shockwave. The mech was as cold and calculating as everybot thought Prowl was, but he didn’t have the emotional crippling of an over-advanced tac-simulator, he was just a sociopath. Shockwave was in the Sigma-series project for the “science” of it and he didn’t particularly care about the individual mechs. Even the one-opticked mech’s intended conjunx seemed to be a means to an end. A mech with a naturally sparked Sigma ability of great physical speed. Prowl hypothesized that Shockwave was with him simply to study him closely.

Once at his hab he couldn’t calm his processor. He yanked it viciously away from a loop about Shockwave’s relationships. He tried to think about the mechs he had just met to fairly assess them, though he doubted any of them would want to be even associated with him now. Most of them were intelligent enough, certainly, but boring, predictable… just not _right_.

He paced, unaware that he was softly growling.

He thought about sending a comm. to Smokescreen and demanding a game. Something with tactics to engage his processor. But, no. Smokescreen had been last seen the previous cycle coaxing Perceptor into his hab suite and neither of them had left yet.

Best to let them settle into this progression of their relationship.

Bluestreak? No, he disregarded that thought almost as soon as it had crossed his processor. The Twins were possessive of his attention the cycles after a mission.

But he needed something… he needed…

Prowl turned abruptly and left his hab suite again.

He needed his sanctuary.

 

Jazz smiled brightly when he caught sight of Prowl entering the oil house, continuing to strum lightly on his elecro-sitar. Without really thinking about it Prowl gravitated toward the table nearest the stage. The bartender sent a server over with his regular order. It was quite late into the cycle and very few mechs were present, most having gone to their respective homes for the cycle. Prowl sipped his energon and let the music wash over him.

The visored mech finished his song and came over to Prowl’s table, leaning his hip against it with a friendly nudge of his EMF. He looked freshly polished, the warm glow of the bar’s lighting reflecting pleasingly off his plating.

“Hey there, mech, wasn’t expectin’ ya back fo’ at least another metacycle. Ya ok? Ya look stressed.”

“I am a bit.” Prowl admitted. Though already his processor was calming. “Work has been taxing, and I can’t really tell you much about it.”

“Ya need me t’ sing yar troubles away?” The tone was teasing, but Prowl found himself responding earnestly.

“Would you?”

Jazz’s visor flared a little and a concerned look crossed his face. He leaned forward and placed his servo on Prowl’s for a klik.

“Ok, mech. Well, ya just sit back and let me work. Got a new one today that I’m debuting.”

Jazz sauntered back to the stage and picked up his elecro-sitar. He played a few soft, pure notes and then Jazz opened his mouth and began to sing in an ancient Cybertronian dialect. Delicate, lilting tones filled Prowl’s audios, the rest of the world faded away from his notice, his entire attention arrested by the mech in the gleaming spotlight. Every now and then, Jazz’s visor would lift to meet his optics almost shyly. It felt like the mech was singing for him alone. The song ended to a thin smattering of applause. 

When Jazz finished he returned to Prowl’s table.

“Why do you stay here?” Prowl asked bluntly. 

Jazz tilted his head curiously. “Whadd’ya mean?”

“You’re so talented, you could go anywhere.”

Jazz quirked a smile at him and signalled to the bartender that he was finished with his set as he sat down. “I like it here. This place, th' mechs… they all speak t' my spark.”

“Even me?” Prowl said with a sardonic raise of an orbital ridge.

“Especially ya.” Jazz glanced down bashfully. “Yar incredibly perceptive, refreshingly honest, and adorably shy. Truth be told, ya kinda intrigue me mech.”

“...Can I have your comm. number?” Prowl blurted out, too desperate to be embarrassed. “I know we only just recently met, but I feel a connection to you. You… you intrigue me too.”

Jazz smiled warm and sincere. “Sure. I like talking t’ ya.”

After they exchanged numbers Prowl prompted, “So, are you going to finish telling me about your “adventure”?”

Jazz laughed in delight. “Sure, mech.”

And if Prowl’s servo crept ever so slowly across the table toward Jazz’s during his story, he said nothing about it and let his own servo meet Prowl’s halfway.


	5. Proper Data Required

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How exactly does one participate in a "festival"?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heehee! Another chapter of relationship development and fluff before the seriousness comes back.

The next few decacycles passed pleasantly for Prowl. Missions in the dark cycles were offset by a musical laugh. The aggravation of poor mission rosters soothed by a beautiful sparkling visor. His processor was slowly building a portfolio of images and sound clips centered on his musician to dip into when his attention became snared by a loop.

Their evenings at the oil house consisted of Jazz’s music and amusing stories and Prowl’s dry observations about the mech’s around them which caused Jazz no little amount of merriment most evenings. The more time they spent together the more tactile Jazz became. Brushes along a shoulder strut, a servo holding his, a gentle press into his side as Jazz leaned against him. Prowl’s spark gave a little flip every time every time the musician touched him.

Cycles when Prowl couldn’t get away to the oil house he and Jazz would spend long joors talking over comms. And when Prowl had to set his comm. to “not available” when on missions, he would turn them on later to amusing messages. In turn, when Jazz was unable to answer his comm. due to a performance Prowl would leave him messages with interesting passages or poetry he’d read.

But now their status quo was about to be shattered. 

Jazz had cheerfully asked Prowl to accompany him to the Festival of Prima.

In the moment Prowl had agreed, of course. But now back in his hab suite he was reviewing all of the possible ways that this… “date” could go disastrously wrong. Mostly from his own lack of practical knowledge.

His inner conflict had been “loud” enough that his brothers had felt it along their sibling bonds and both had converged on his hab to find out what was the matter. Though instead of worried, they both had seemed positively gleeful about the prospect of his upcoming outing.

They knew about Jazz, of course. It was hard to keep things from them especially when they involved his emotions.

“I’ve never seen you pace this much,” Bluestreak said, “It’s kind of making me dizzy. I don’t know why you’re worried. It’s not like you’re going to scare him off. He asked you! He obviously likes you. I wonder what the festival is like? Do you think there will be a lot of mechs? Maybe they’ll have contests like that vid we watched. Maybe they’ll have special energon! What if-?”

“That is precisely the problem.” Prowl cut him off. “I have no data! How am I supposed to act? What are the proper procedures?”

“Calm down.” Smokescreen said from where he was lounging on Prowl’s berth. “You don’t have to worry about that. Once I figured out what had your wires in a twist, I called an expert.”

At that moment Prowl’s door chime sounded.

Prowl’s glare could have melted tungsten.

“What. Did. You. Do.”

Smokescreen just smirked and called for whoever was at the door to come in.

The bright blue and red form of Orion came into view as the door opened. He stopped short of entering when he saw the look on Prowl’s face. A muffled clank sounded as the larger form of Megatron ran into his Fulcrum from behind having not expected him to stop so suddenly. 

“Uh, I can come back if now is a bad time?”

“Nonsense!” Smokescreen said cheerfully. “Prowl’s just grumpy.” Bluestreak merrily grabbed Orion’s arm and pulled him the rest of the way into the room followed by an amused looking Megatron.

“Yeah! He needs as much information about the Festival of Prima as you know so he won’t do something wrong when he’s on his date with Jazz!”

“Bluestreak!” Prowl snapped mortified.

Orion’s optics flickered in a blink. “You’re dating somebot?” He asked innocently.

Megatron just guffawed. “You commented to me, yourself, just the other cycle that Prowl seemed to be more relaxed than usual. Did companionship not cross your processors as a possible reason?” He chuckled again and nuzzled his Fulcrum’s finial. 

Orion crossed his arms with a pout, EMF fluctuating with embarrassment. “You distracted me after that! How was I supposed to think about anything after… Anyway what would you like to know about the Festival?”

“Everything!” Bluestreak said enthusiastically. 

Prowl sighed in defeat. “An overview will suffice. Along with any cultural faux pas I should avoid.”

Orion looked back and forth between the two of them, and apparently decided to go with Prowl’s request.

“The festival was started metavorns ago as a celebration of Prima’s founding of Iacon. Tradition dictates that each building be lined with lights to venerate Prima’s first city. The reigning Prime always oversees the festival. In the modern cycles it has become a symbol of Iaconian pride and beauty.” He gave Prowl an encouraging smile. “As for “cultural faux pas”: as long as you don’t insult Iacon, you should be fine. It’s a festival centered around creation and happiness. Everyone usually celebrates by getting a fresh coat of paint and gorging themselves on delicacies. An interesting fact is that the city only allows local vendors to set up stalls in the streets to sell their wares during the event.”

“Neither Jazz nor I are Iaconian. Will we stand out too much?” Prowl asked.

“No. It’s a city-wide celebration, so there’s likely to be a lot of mechs about, local and tourist. You won’t stand out.” Orion said kindly.

Bluestreak looked his brother with a little concerned. “You’ll be okay among that many mechs if you have something to focus on, right Prowl?”

“Ha!” Megatron said with a leer, “As long as Prowl here has _somebot_ to focus on, I think he’ll be fine.”

Prowl frowned at him, but didn’t disagree. He and Megatron had an odd relationship. The big silver mech continually prodded at him, but managed to never take it too far, acting as something of a friendly antagonist. It was difficult to stay angry at Megatron anyway, he had a way with words that allowed him to charm his way out of anybots bad side.

Bluestreak went from being worried back to excited in a nano-klik. “Are you going to make Jazz your Fulcrum?”

“Jazz doesn’t know about the Sigma-Series project.” Prowl said. “It wouldn’t be right to drag him into something like this.”

“I didn’t know about it either.” Orion pointed out.

“This is completely different than your circumstances when you became part of Project Fulcrum.” Prowl said sharply.

Orion let it drop with a shrug, but both Megatron and Smokescreen were both smirking at him. He gave them a rude gesture with his doorwings.

 

The cycle of the festival began for Prowl with his brothers, once again, barging into his hab. But this time they were armed. With scrubbers, shammy cloths, cleanser and something that Bluestreak would only call “Sunny’s special wax”.

They didn’t give Prowl much of a chance to say no to the help they were offering. And, Primus, Bluestreak’s pleading optics needed to be reclassified as a deadly weapon.

By the end of it he’d been polished til his plating shone. They both demanded souvenirs as payment and cheerfully sent him on his way to sneak out of the labs.

He’d arranged with Jazz to meet him at the oil house at mid-cycle and he’d arrived nervously early to find the streets already filled with people. His processor tried to latch onto features and mannerisms of the passing mechs and femmes. Before he could convince himself that this whole endeavor was a bad idea, he heard Jazz call out his name and his processor calmed. The sight of the freshly polished and waxed musician waving and smiling as he walked towards him soothed his fears and gave him the ability to smile back.

Jazz linked their arms when he reached Prowl. “Ya ready to go, Prowler?”

 _Anywhere with you._ “Of course, lead the way.”

The visored mech grinned widely and led him to a vendor selling crystallized energon in the shape of “Prima”. They each bought one.

“Rico and I were here once for th' festival with our creators when we were real little. They made us share one of these. Tha' nearly ended in a fight. We both wanted th’ head.” Jazz said with a laugh gleefully biting the head off of his confection.

After a moment of deliberation, Prowl bought two more and tucked them safely away into his subspace “for his brothers”, he explained to Jazz. He’d told Jazz edited versions of stories about Smokescreen and Bluestreak and they’d commiserated about having trying siblings.

Jazz then dragged him to an art installation in one of the parks. Prowl took some image captures for Sunstreaker and contemplated encouraging him to enter his work into the next festival.

Besides Bluestreak, the Twins each had another way of managing their rage-induced psychosis. Sunstreaker liked to make art and Sideswipe liked to dance; expressing themselves in ways that didn’t involve violence. They were both quite talented at their chosen “vices”, the artistic tendencies probably a side effect of their frame type.

Near the park was a street cordoned off full of carnival games. 

“Ya wanna play some games?” Jazz asked when he saw the direction of Prowl’s gaze.

Prowl tilted his helm in confusion. “Most of these games are tampered with to set the player up for failure.”

Jazz burst out laughing. “Well, o’course, Prowler. Everybot knows tha’ they’re rigged. Doesn’t mean we don’ try ‘em just to see if we can beat th’ odds.

Prowl contemplated for a moment and then nodded. “I would like to try one.”

The game he chose featured heavy, metal bottles (86.335% chance they were weighted) stacked in a triangular formation that he was supposed to knock down with a worn mesh and metal ball (which looked to had been carefully drilled out to make it lighter). His decision had been made less by the game itself and more by the coo Jazz had made at the prize- a mesh plushie in the shape of a turbo-fox.

The mech manning the game was a smarmy-looking green mech that winked at Jazz in a way that made Prowl’s doorwings hike up in aggression. He held his servo out imperiously for the ball.

“I will play this game.”

“Woah, alright, alright, big guy. Here, just try to knock the bottles over. You’ve got three tries.”

“I only need one.” Prowl said.

He hefted the ball measuringly and eyed the bottle tower allowing his tac-net to calculate speed, power and trajectory. If they allowed such games then he felt no remorse in using his talents to cheat.

“Yeah, right-” The green mech muttered.

He let the ball fly. The bottles all clattered to the street. The mech’s mouth fell open in shock. 

“I believe I have won.” Prowl said smugly. The green mech handed him the plushie with pale startled optics. The Praxian immediately turned to Jazz and gave him the toy. The musician gave him the sweetest smile and hugged it to his chestplates. 

“Thank you!”

He grabbed Prowl’s servo and started to tug him along. “Come on! There’s supposed to be a big music shindig in the main square!”

He let Jazz lead him to the square, spark light and pulsing with happiness. He balked a little when the visored mech pulled him toward a bunch of mechs dancing in some sort of structured dance.

“I-I do not know how to dance.” he protested.

But Jazz just gave him an encouraging grin and subspaced the plushie to free his other servo to take Prowl’s.

“Come on, Prowler! Just follow me. I’ll teach you.”

Prowl redirected his tac-net from scrutinizing his own clunky form and how it was incompatible with the graceful moves of the dancers to focusing it on Jazz’s instructions. Soon he found himself twirling and clapping with the beat as Jazz gaily guided him through the steps. They spun together faster and faster, Prowl’s optics fixed on the visored mech. The music suddenly ended with a cheer as they finished a move chestplate to chestplate and servos clasped. Prowl realized that they were in the center of a circle of mechs and femmes that were cheering for their display. Jazz’s grin was incandescent with joy as he encouraged Prowl to join him in giving a bow.

After they got out of the crowd, Prowl tentatively suggested a reputable-looking restaurant to get their evening energon which Jazz willingly agreed to. While they were sitting at an outdoor table enjoying their meal, a large commotion started down the street. 

“What is happening?” Prowl asked, immediately alert for danger.

“Oh,” Jazz said unconcerned, “tha’s just the arrival of th’ Prime to th’ festival. He usually gets here right before th’ night cycle t’ give a big speech at City Hall. Then they light up all the lights on the buildings.”

Prowl had noticed the subtle twinkle of the tiny lights strung on the frames of all the buildings, on the bridges and around lamp posts all day.

He relaxed. “Ah.”

Jazz smiled mischievously. “Finish up yar energon an’ we can catch some of th’ speech b’fore I show you something special.”

Not normally one to let his thoughts wander in such a way, Prowl couldn’t help but put those words and smile into a less innocent context than they were probably meant. He subtly vented out a waft of hot air and hoped that Jazz hadn’t noticed.

They walked to City Hall with servos linked. There was already a large crush of mechs. Sentinel Prime came to a raised platform and began to make a speech about the great history of Iacon. Jazz tugged playfully on Prowl’s servo and dimmed half his visor in a wink. Then he led him quietly away from the enraptured crowd. They ducked down several back streets and then Jazz started to climb up the fire escape of one of the closed stores.

“Where, exactly, are we going now?” Prowl asked with amusement climbing up after Jazz. Not that he was really complaining. He had a fantastic view of Jazz’s aft.

The musician called back down to him laughingly. “I know where th’ best seats in th’ house are for th’ light ceremony. We jus’ gotta get t’ them.”

They finally made it up to the gentle slope of the roof. Jazz sat with his legs folded up to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees while Prowl adopted a cross legged position.

Jazz bumped their shoulders together gently. “And now we wait.”

Above them, the stars shone brightly in the darkened sky. From far away the low muffled drone of the Prime’s speech echoed through the streets.

Jazz hummed in contentment. “T’day was the most fun I’ve had in ages."

Prowl felt his dermas stretch into a smile. “I believe this was one of the happiest cycles of my existence. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“I’d love t’ share more happy cycles with ya.” Jazz murmured, oddly serious. Prowl turned his helm to look at Jazz to find the other gazing at him with a soft, vulnerable look on his faceplates. 

Slowly, as if afraid a quick movement would cause the other to bolt, Prowl raised his servo and cupped Jazz’s cheek. He tilted his helm and placed a delicate kiss on the musician’s dermas.

The drone of the Prime’s speech crescendoed and then ended to thunderous applause from the mechs and femmes in the streets startling the two of them apart. Then the world lit up around them as the strings of previously dark lights came to life on every building. Jazz chuckled breathlessly, visor and plating awash in the twinkling glow. “Told ya. Best seats in th’ house.”

Prowl smiled, gazing at him adoringly. “Truely.”

Jazz answered with a grin and leaned over to kiss him again.


	6. Defender Protocol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The true extent of Prowl's tac-net was quite devastating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...aannnnd a wild badaft Prowl appears. Whee.

Prowl was going to maim whoever had approved this mission roster. They had sent frontline warriors on a mission that required stealth. More specifically, they had sent Sideswipe, Sunstreaker and Megatron to assassinate a senator that had been amassing a drone army to send against the Council. Senator Ratbat had seemingly finally lost what was left of his processors and threatened the ruling bots, including the Prime, openly. He trusted no bot, even going so far as to use only drones to operate his mansion rather than live bots. 

Prowl was, once again, overseeing the running of the mission at his terminal in the transport. It was only through his constant running of his pre-cog processors that they hadn’t run into any of the paranoid bot’s patrolling drones. If he could have spared the processing power for his emotional routines, he would have been fuming. 

:The door across from you to the right of the T-section is the location of your target. Wait ten kliks for the next patol to go by and then override the door with the access code.:

:Understood.: Megatron rumbled.

Prowl’s doorwings flared and flexed in subconscious annoyance. He didn’t even have a proper visual feed without Reflector there and no audio; only a grainy sub-par camera that had been fitted to Megatron’s helm.

It was because of this that Prowl didn’t really see what happened next. The three operatives managed to get the door open. Then there was a flash of light and a flurry of curses over the comms. The camera cut out.

:Report! What is happening?!: Prowl demanded.

For several spark-stopping moments there was no answer. Then…

:Frag.:

That was Sideswipe.

:Report, Sideswipe.:

:Objective complete. Fragger was laying in wait for us. He shot Megatron with some sort of high powered fusion cannon. Megs is alive, but badly injured. I don’t think we can get him back to the drop point without alerting the drones to our presence. Sunny’s about to lose it.:

More processes cycled to life in Prowl’s already overworking processor.

:Is Megatron stable?:

:Yeah, for now.:

:Stay where you are. You and Sunstreaker defend Megatron, but do NOT leave the room you are in. I shall extract you.:

:Prowl, what-?:

:That’s an order.:

:...Yes, Sir.:

Prowl abandoned his terminal and made his way to the weapons locker. He subspaced gun after gun until warnings of overburdening began to flash in his diagnostics. Then he stepped into the cockpit of the transport. The pilot was unfamiliar; not one he had worked with or seen before.

“Objective has been completed. The Operatives require extraction, take us back to the drop point.” Prowl said.

The pilot shook his helm not looking at Prowl. “No can do, my orders are to retreat as soon as the objective is achieved. If the Operatives cannot get to the transport I have to leave them.”

A high soft whine was the only warning the bot received before the barrel of an ion pistol was pressed with deceptive gentleness to the back of his helm.

Prowl spoke in a terrifyingly flat monotone. “I am giving you new orders. You will take me back to the drop point. You will then wait for the operatives to return. This transport is fitted with an autopilot, but I would prefer not to be forced to use it. Have I made myself clear?”

Minute tremors rustled the mech’s plating. “...Y-yes, Sir. P-perfectly. H-heading to the drop point.”

Prowl stayed standing where he was as the pilot maneuvered the transport, a still and silent threat.

“Drop point reached, Sir.”

“Hold position until we return.”

Prowl left the shaking pilot and keyed open the door to the outside. He was now a few breems outside of the now-deactivated senator’s villa. He started moving swiftly on his pedes and pulled up a specific line of code from his deep processors.

**Defender Protocol engaged. Activate?**

**Affirmative. Search and destroy targets in half-mile radius excluding the following coordinates: .000387 and 26.453.**

**Acknowledged. Searching…**

**Multiple targets found. Execute Defender Protocol?**

**Affirmative.**

His hud lit up with moving dots. Targets. The pilot in the transport and the other operatives should be safe if they stayed within his predicted coordinates. He let his consciousness take a metaphorical step back, his pre-cog instincts taking over.

He took another pistol out of his subspace, twin to the one he was already holding. Closer and closer he converged on the targets. Then he began to fire. Drone after drone fell. Red dots disappearing. Doors opened under his remote hacking, hot-wiring and, when those both failed, brute force of his energy shots. His guns ran out at the same time and he dropped them un-subspacing two more without breaking his stride.

Again and again he discarded empty guns among the smoking remains of sparkless drones. Every so often a drone would get a lucky close shot that glanced off his plating. It did not matter, pain was secondary to exterminating the targets. The haze of target, lock, fire lulled his consciousness into a place of timelessness. It was almost peaceful. Perhaps, he thought idly, he would remain like this forever, wrapped in a cocoon of mechanical movements and muffled laser fire. But no, there was something important he had to come back for. The sway of a lithe body, a sparkle of blue, a voice.

The last red target faded from his hud. It felt like waking from recharge. His tanks churned a bit as he took in the destruction around him that he’d caused. It was only made slightly better by the fact that he knew the piles of parts decorating the hallways had never been alive to begin with. He had just started shoving the protocol back into submission when three red dots appeared on his hud.

**Three targets acquired.** His pre-cog helpfully informed him. **Execute Defender Protocol?**

:Prowl?: Sideswipe said in astonishment, opticking the scrap metal around them. 

**Deny.** Prowl wanted to scream.

The Twins had stepped into the hallway supporting an unconscious Megatron between them. 

Out of the safe zone he’d created for them.

:Side...swipe. Get… back.:

His processor began to loop.

**Three targets acquired. Execute Defender Protocol?**

**Deny.**

**Searching…**

Contrary as ever, Sideswipe took a step forward. :Prowl?:

Prowl threw up a hand to ward him from coming any closer belatedly realizing that he still held a blaster. Sideswipe stopped with overbright shocked optics. Of the three of them, only Megatron had seen Prowl in the throes of the Protocol before and he was down for the count.

:Cannot stop… protocol.:

**Three targets acquired. Execute Defender Protocol?**

**Deny.**

**Searching…**

Prowl mentally scrambled for his cache of Jazz-related distractions. His processor stilled.

**...Single target acquired and acknowledged. Pursue and capture.**

_NO!_

But it was too late. Prowl felt himself transform and with a rev of his high powered engine, he left the Twins, Megatron and the hovering transport behind. He couldn’t make himself stop. His processor was too deep in the code and he was a helpless passenger in his own body. 

Was this what it was like to go Feral? Trapped screaming silently in his mind as his Sigma-coded body took over.

All too soon he was pulling up in front of the oil house. Relief swept through him. It was closed. The feeling withered and died a few moments later as he snuck around the side of the building and heard music coming from an open window. He peered in.  
Jazz sat at his synth, body in profile. He looked relaxed and peaceful as he played a simple little melody. A small smile sat upon his dermas. Warm notes cascaded and echoed about the room. His fingers danced across the keys.

Why did Jazz have to be practicing now? Why wasn’t he home, safe from Prowl?

But then Prowl realized…

The Defender Protocol had shut itself down. He was in control of himself again. His hands flexed and relaxed, free of weapons. He slumped down against the wall beside the window and shut off his optics, listening to the sound of his salvation.

He lost track of time, only coming to when he heard Jazz start to pack up. He sat, still and silent as the visored mech closed the window inches from his helm. He crept to the end of the alley and waited. The door of the bar opened and shut, the electronic lock beeped as Jazz entered a code. When the musician passed by the alley Prowl’s servo shot out and caught his arm. Jazz startled badly with a yelp.

“Primus! What th’ frag mech-! ...Prowl?”

Prowl gave a shuddering sigh and pulled Jazz half into the alley and to his chestplates. He nuzzled an audial horn blindly.

“Prowl?! Mech, wha’ happened? Yar platin’s all scored up!” Jazz ran his digits ever so gently over the scorch marks.

He was injured? Prowl hadn’t even noticed. “I… I can’t tell you. My work… we were doing live testing of some of the scenarios I was running. It… got out of hand, that’s all.”

“Ya need t’ go t’ a med-center.”

“No! I mean... I… can’t really tell them either.”

Jazz stared at him in concern for a moment and then his visor sharpened with determination. “Come on. I’ve got some nanite gel and bandages at my place. I’m gonna at least patch ya up as best I can.”

“Your place?”

“Yeah, it’s not far.” Jazz put Prowl’s arm around his shoulder and started to walk them down the street. “Makes for a great commute.” The joke was obviously forced, but it did the job of injecting some normality into the situation.

Prowl couldn’t make himself say no, curling himself in towards warm plating and the soothing murmuring voice.


	7. Connecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl claims his musician.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where the story earns its M rating. I tried to write smut... don't know if it's any good.   
> _:Blah:_ -hardline speak

Jazz did indeed live quite close to the oil house. His apartment was in a highrise about four blocks from the establishment. It was late enough in the cycle that the elevator and halls were devoid of mechs. Jazz led Prowl up to the eighth floor. He quickly typed the code to his apartment and Prowl memorized it without meaning to. 

Once inside, Prowl scanned the room. There was a couch in front of an entertainment center with a small table next to it. Two overflowing bookshelves in the corner; the turbo-fox plushie that Prowl had won him at the festival a few cycles ago was perched proudly on top of one of them; and instrument cases crowding the floor. There was a small galley kitchen and an open doorway that led to a berthroom. Just beyond that door he could see a small washracks. 

The musician insistently pushed his unresisting form down onto the couch.

“Ya just sit there for a klik, I’ll be right back.”

Prowl nodded numbly. His processor felt slow and sluggish.

Jazz gave him a small, troubled smile, and then started to flit back and forth across the apartment gathering items. First he went to the washracks in the berthroom and came back with some rolled up meshes and a tub of medicated nanite gel that he placed on the small side table next to the couch. Then he stopped in the kitchen and warmed some low-grade energon. Jazz started humming gently.

Prowl zoned out on the soft sound, optics wandering aimlessly about the room. The datapads on the bookshelves seemed to be mostly music theory, sheet music and fantasy novels with a dash of history thrown in. Suddenly Jazz was in front of him encouraging him to grasp a cube of the warmed energon.

“Here, drink this. Ya need a little bit of extra energy t’ jump start th’ nanites, but th’ low grade won’t keep ya from recharging.”

Prowl brought the cube mechanically to his dermas, optics now fixed on Jazz. The visored mech sat down next to him and picked up the tub of nanite gel. He tore off some of the rolled up mesh and dabbed it into the gel, then began to carefully smooth it over some of the worst marks on Prowl’s plating.

“I use t’ do this for Ricochet when he first joined th’ Enforcers.” Jazz said, breaking the silence. “He’d never go t’ th’ medics for the small nicks and scrapes he’d pick up on patrol an’ he didn’t want t’ worry our creators over them. After Rico met his conjunx, he went t’ him for all his ‘treatments’. But I always keep a stock of this stuff now, jus’ outta habit.”

Prowl continued to watch him, hypnotized by his movements.

Jazz put down the mesh and tub after medicating what he could reach and worriedly cupped Prowl’s faceplate with a servo.

“Hey, mech, ya with me? Are ya in shock or somethin’?”

Prowl turned his helm, turned his optics off and pressed a kiss to Jazz’s palm. “I am alright now that I’m with you.” Prowl spoke for this first time since entering Jazz’s domain. 

“Still bein’ a charmer.” Jazz said voice trembling with relief.

“I am just speaking the truth.” Prowl sighed, leaning into Jazz’s touch. He turned his optics back on. Jazz was gazing at him with an earnestly worried expression, a small amount of fear flickering in the depths of his visor.

“Ya scared me fo’ a bit there, sweetspark.”

“I am sorry.”

Jazz’s other servo joined the first in framing Prowl’s faceplates. “Hey, now, none of tha’. As long as yar okay now.”

Jazz had been scared, but not of him. Jazz had been scared _for_ him. He never wanted Jazz to be scared, but at the same time it felt nice that the mech cared enough for him to warrant that amount of worry. Prowl leaned forward putting the cube of half-drunk fuel on the table and then wrapping his arms around Jazz’s midsection. He wanted bundle the musician up and keep him safe forever. He wanted touch his plating until the fear Jazz had felt was nothing but a memory. He wanted to make Jazz _sing_.

His tac-net helpfully pointed out several locations on Jazz’s frame that would increase the probability of his success should he so choose to use them. He picked the most readily accessible one. Prowl dipped his helm and put his dermas on Jazz’s neck cables knowing that the vibrations of his voice would light up Jazz’s sensor net.

“Jazz, can I… can we…? I want…”

He delved his digits gently into a seam. 

“...I want you.”

Jazz shuddered lightly at the touches, his servos migrating to the top of Prowl’s helm. “Are ya sure? This isn’t jus’ ya recoverin’ from some sort o’ near death experience is it?”

That forced a small huff of amusement out of Prowl’s vents. He pulled back and looked steadily into Jazz’s visor.

“I have desired you for a long time. Interface with me?”

His straightforwardness was apparently the reassurance that Jazz needed.The mech smiled and pulled him back in for a sensor-igniting kiss. 

Black and white servos moved and explored. Jazz’s found the hinges of Prowl’s doorwings, carefully moving over still healing plating to get there. Prowl’s discovered an auxiliary port not part of Jazz’s main interface array that was usually used for specialized instruments. Both proved to be quite sensitive. Frames heated and fans kicked on.

At some point dermas moved from one another to other places. Jazz kissed and suckled Prowl’s chevron between moans as the doorwinged mech returned his attention to the musician’s neck. Jazz gasped when he nipped cables.

“H-hey, ya wanna move this t’ a berth?”

Prowl, too intent on the sounds he was eliciting from his musician, mumbled against Jazz’s throat, “Not especially.”

Then Prowl suddenly shifted them and Jazz found himself flat on his back on the couch with Prowl looming over him enticingly. A breathless chuckled escaped his dermas and he hooked a leg up over Prowl’s thigh.

“Alrigh’, then.”

More stroking and teasing of plating and wires eventually led them to each other’s interface arrays. Prowl’s opened eagerly under Jazz’s touch and he had to consciously hold back the charge that wanted to surge forth as the visored mech played with his cables like he was playing with one of his instruments, venting in great gasps of air to center himself. 

He reached for Jazz’s interface panel, delighted to find it already open and waiting for him. He fondled the cables, tapping the end of them gently to watch tiny sparks jump from the ends to his digits. Jazz’s digits flexed reactively.

“Pleeeease…” he whimpered.

Prowl took his own cords along with Jazz’s and clicked their connectors into place. Jazz arched up against him visor incandescent and vocalizer spitting static at the sudden influx of data. Prowl’s doorwings flinched guiltily, right, most bots couldn’t handle the sheer volume of data Prowl possessed. He was about to pull back and apologize when unexpectedly, Jazz yanked Prowl’s helm down for a firey kiss.

_:More!:_ He demanded.

Prowl couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. His consciousness surged forward. The connection between them widened as Jazz lowered his firewalls, welcoming him in. Through his own pleasure Prowl felt confusion. He wasn’t hurting Jazz. How? Interfacing in the past with a bandwidth this wide had overwhelmed his partners. Then he peered into Jazz’s systems and understood with dawning awe. 

Jazz had been sparked for music. His entire sensor net was made for analysing and synthesizing sound data. He handled huge influxes like Prowl’s on a regular basis. His previous interface partners probably couldn’t stimulate his entire net. Not like Prowl could. 

Something like smug satisfaction settled in his spark as they cycled packets round and round, igniting sensors from the inside out. Charge built and snapped across their plating in tiny electrical storms. Overload came in a stunningly gentle swell. Jazz clung to him releasing a melodic cry into the room.

As they came down off the high, Jazz stretched languidly.

_:That processor o’ yours is really somethin’. Ain’t never had a bot who wasn’t another sonic frame able t’ reach all my spots b’fore.:_

Which only cemented what Prowl had suspected earlier. Prowl ran a servo down Jazz’s flank possessively. _:I am glad I can please you.:_

Jazz gave him a beatific smile and a quick kiss. Prowl sighed contentedly resting on top of Jazz as his mind sank blissfully into the uncomplicated processor intertwined with his own. Aimlessly following unfinished melodies and burrowing rapturously into sweeping landscapes of color and sound.

Jazz shifted slightly at the pleasurable stimulation and chuckled breathlessly. _:Cuddly, ain’t’cha?:_

_:Does it bother you?:_

It was one of his “quirks” that had made his previous interface partners uncomfortable. He liked staying connected via hardline after an overload. Like the feel of momentarily escaping into another processor. Liked to recharge while connected.

_:Not at all, mech. Feels nice.:_

_:...How are you so perfect?:_

This time the laugh was purely mental _:Ain’t perfect. Jus’ adaptable.:_

Adaptable. Flexible where he was ridged. Loud where he was quiet. Flashy where he was plain. Opposites. A bot he couldn’t predict.

Something clicked into place in Prowl’s processor. He had know it subconsciously for a while, but had ignored it in a misguided attempt to protect the visored mech.

He was tired of pretending. He curled his arms more securely around the mech as his consciousness settled against Jazz’s, purring like a giant mecha-felida.

_My Fulcrum._


	8. Annoying Brothers and Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smokescreen knows how to make things awkward...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, this chapter was giving me trouble because I was trying to write plot and my Prowl-muse wanted fluff.  
> Fluff wins for now.  
> :Blah.:- Comm speak  
>  _:Blah.:_ \- Hardline speak

Prowl came online quickly as his tac-net sensed something amiss and accelerated his boot sequence. Through their still-connected hardlines he could feel his Fulcrum subconsciously react to his abrupt waking. Jazz stirred mentally and physically with a soft murmur against him; his presence a soft shimmering pool, rather than the effervescent cloud of colors it was when he was awake. Prowl soothed the sleepy consciousness back down into a deep recharge as he scanned the room for whatever it was that had wakened him.

They had shifted positions to recharge on the couch, neither one wishing to disconnect in order to get up and make it to the berth. Jazz was still tucked between him and the back of the couch, which allowed his doorwings free movement.   
Prowl dialled up the sensors on his doorwings to detect any shift in the ambient EMF. Gently, he “borrowed” access to Jazz’s impressive audial array to listen for movement and sound.

There.

A shift just outside the room and an electrical disturbance. Somebot was attempting to hack the door to Jazz’s apartment.

Prowl moved slightly to cover more of Jazz’s frame and unsubbed a pistol. Part of his processor wrapped itself around Jazz’s, cocooning and suppressing it so the visored mech would not wake. He aimed the gun over the back of the couch as the door slid open.

Smokescreen padded silently into the room followed by two non-Sigma security mechs from the CRDAA. Prowl sent a remote command to the door bolstered by Jazz’s locking code, shutting it behind them and cutting off the light from the hall. The three mechs froze. It took Smokescreen a moment to spot Prowl in the darkness. His doorwings flared in surprise.

“Prowl-?”

:Comms.: Prowl snapped.

Smokescreen made a placating gesture. :Alright.:

:You had better have a good reason for being here.: Prowl said dangerously, pistol still locked on his cohort-mate.

It was pointless to ask how he’d been found. All the OperatIves had been fitted with trackers since protoforming. He’d always known his “sneaking” out of the labs had been sanctioned.

:...Are you alright?: Smokescreen ventured cautiously, :Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were pretty convinced that you had gone off on some sort of rampage.:

It sounded like he expected it might still happen.

Prowl huffed and answered succinctly. :I was coming down off the Defender Protocol. They moved. I had to leave.:

Smokescreen relaxed minutely and signaled to the two other bots in a stand-down motion. They took up positions on either side of the now-closed door.

His cohort-mate’s optics swept the darkened room. :Soooo… You want to tell me why you’re in some random mech’s apartment?:

:This is Jazz’s apartment.:

:Uh huh. Okay. So, where’s Jazz, then?:

:Do not ask stupid questions. My Fulcrum is safe.: Prowl’s doorwings flexed in aggravation.

Smokescreen looked surprised for a moment and then edged forward, wary of the pistol that was still pointed at him. He must have caught sight of some part of the musician over the back of the couch because he quickly backed off with a half-relieved, half-gleeful grin.

:Well, okay then. I guess, they’ll send some bots to pack up his things in a bit and get him moved into your hab-:

:No. He does not know. If anybot is sent to do such a thing I will send them back to the labs in pieces. He should remain here where he is safe.:

Smokescreen frowned. :But he’s your Fulcrum. He needs to be close to you.:

:And he will be, here. I refuse to rip him from his life just to make my own more comfortable.:

:Prowl, I don’t think-:

:I do not presume to tell you how to interact with your Fulcrum. I would expect you to give me the same courtesy.:

:...Point. The higher ups aren’t going to be happy about this.:

:They can bring it to my attention personally, if it disturbs them that much.:

Smokescreen smirked at the thought of how _that_ particular conversation was likely to go. Prowl used logic like a weapon.

:So, what now, brother?: 

Prowl sighed and remote opened the door. One of the security mechs jumped with a muffled curse. :If you would please vacate, I would appreciate it. We are still rather intimately attached and your presence is disconcerting. There’s a reason my defense subroutines have not shut off.: He gestured with the pistol.

:Hum? Oh!: Suddenly the grin was back in full force, this time with a salacious undertone. :Oooooohhhhkaaaaay. Sorry to disturb you, then. I’ll just go tell everybot that you haven't gone on a psychopathic killing spree and leave you to it shall I?:

:Tell who needs to be told, Smokescreen.: Prowl’s engine growled warningly. He absently soothed Jazz again as the disturbance bothered his audial net.

Smokescreen, backing away slowly, put up his servos. He waved them in both an “I’m harmless” motion to assuage his cranky cohort-mate and to get the security mechs moving. :Sure, sure! I’ll just, uh, see us out.:

He paused at the threshold. :Congratulations, by the way, I knew he was the one for you.: And then he was gone before Prowl could form an appropriate response.

Prowl growled softly in annoyance, closing and relocking the door. He settled back down into his former position. The pistol went back into his subspace and he rewrapped his arm around Jazz. At least somebot at the CRDAA had the sense to send one of his cohort-mates. He might have shot anybot else outright if he had still been trapped in the Defender Protocol. 

As it was, his trigger-happy response had stemmed from both a feeling of possessiveness for his Fulcrum and the fact that they were still hardlined together. 

He gently loosen his hold on Jazz’s processors. Slipping back reluctantly, only to have the consciousness follow his with a languid mental snuggle. Prowl smiled and stroked Jazz’s helm eliciting a happy purr. The mech would wake in his own time. Prowl could wait. His systems were too alert now to achieve anymore recharge.

A few joors later, just at the start of the light cycle, Jazz’s presence “brightened” from its subdued shimmer as he cycled online. Prowl held his processors back to give the mech metaphorical space as he oriented himself and remembered how he got into his current position.

Jazz smiled lazily when his visual center flickered into focus and he saw Prowl’s faceplates close to his own. Indolent digits guided Prowl’s helm down to give him a decidedly less idle kiss.

“Mmm, mornin’ Prowler.” Jazz murmured against his dermas.

Prowl rumbled happily, processors rapturously twinning with the dancing colors of Jazz’s. _:Good morning.:_

“I ain’t recharged tha’ well in a while.” He said with an affectionate nuzzle, satisfaction echoing down the link between them.

“Would you like breakfast?” Prowl asked, pushing down a slight feeling of guilt before it could be felt along the hardline.

“Spoilin’ me already? Ya’ll neva’ get rid of me, then.”

“Perhaps that is just part of my plan.”

“Charmer.” Jazz said fondly booping his olfactory.

They began untangling from one another. Prowl would have been content staying connected, but that was rather unconducive to acquiring sustenance. Jazz gave Prowl’s panel a mischievous pat after he recoiled Prowl’s plug into his housing. The Praxian’s engine revved softly.

“Energon first. Then… perhaps again?” Prowl asked hopefully.

Jazz laughed huskily and kissed him. “Perhaps again. On a berth, even.”

Prowl chuckled himself and gently prodded the visored mech into the kitchen. Jazz hopped up to sit on the counter. Under Jazz’s direction, he gathered a base and some additives to mix for their energon. Having to reach around the mech to gather supplies meant it was easy to steal kisses as he worked. As he was heating the mixture his comm pinged with an incoming call. 

Annoyance flared. For the first time in his functioning he ignored his comm. Then impulsive rebellion made him bold and he turned it off. The CRDAA could damn well wait. He was busy caring for his Fulcrum.

They drank their energon, with Prowl leaning on the counter between Jazz’s legs. As their glasses got lower they started sharing less and less innocent touches. Finally, Prowl couldn’t take it anymore and plucked Jazz’s nearly empty glass from his digits. He smirked at Jazz’s delighted squeal when he hoisted the mech up in his arms to carry him to the berthroom.


	9. Returning to "Work"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logic is on Prowl's side for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot strikes back finally, even if the chapter's short.

Prowl spent a leisurely light-cycle with Jazz. He felt the most balanced he ever had in his functioning and at the same time like a young mech that had just discovered what his interface protocols were for. Although Jazz, himself, didn’t seem unaffected by their new intimacy, welcoming and initiating several sensual sessions. 

In between interfacing, they lounged on Jazz’s couch. Prowl read a few of the historical texts Jazz owned and the musician spent the time alternating between writing music, strumming on his elecro-sitar and reclining on Prowl’s lap.

Prowl was loath to leave as the dark-cycle started to close in, but he knew that the longer he ignored contact from the CRDAA, the more likely it was that they would send an Operative to come retrieve him. Likely not one of his brothers and likely armed.

After an apologetic excuse about checking in with his job, he walked Jazz to the oil house in time for his nightly gig. A ping from his tac-net had him picking up on the three mechs tailing them immediately. Security mechs. Nervous, disguised and armed.

 _Amateurs_ , Prowl thought uncharitably.

A thorough analysis of their mannerisms sped through his processors and he snarled silently when his pre-cog spit out an evaluation of the situation.

At the door of the oil house the Praxian kissed his musician gently with an apologetic press of his EMF.

“I am sorry that I will not get to see your performance tonight, but I must check in.”

“‘S all right, sweetspark. I know yar work’s important.”

“Not as important as you.”

Jazz’s smile could have lit the street with its brightness. He stole another quick kiss and then entered the bar giving Prowl a departing digit-wiggle wave. The smile on Prowl’s face stayed until he walked farther down the street, it slipped off as he ducked into an alley. 

There he waited for the security mechs to catch up with him. The two mechs that entered the alley looked like mecha-deer caught in headlights when they found him standing there waiting for them.

“Gentlemechs. I assume you are my escorts back to the labs.”

Astonished, they nodded.

Prowl’s optics sharpened. “I would suggest you call the third mech and tell him that the vigil over my Fulcrum is unnecessary.”

One of them gave himself away as his optics blanched pale for a nano-klik before he attempted to play ignorant. “Um, what are you-?”

“The two of you were sent to tail and retrieve me. Using force, if necessary. The third was sent to watch my Fulcrum after we parted, possibly all evening, and to take him into custody in the dark-cycle after his shift.” Prowl fixed the mech with a cold glare. “Call. Him. Off.”

The other mech gathered his courage and apparently decided that lying to him was unwise. “I’m sorry, we don’t have the clearance to do that, Sir.”

Prowl let his countenance smooth out to an unreadable flatness. “Very well, I suggest we return to the labs. I must find the mech who has the appropriate clearance to stop a kidnapping, I suppose.”

The first mech that had spoken looked vaguely guilty while the other kept his composure.

“Thank you for cooperating, Sir.”

Prowl led the way back to the labs.

When they arrived, Prowl immediately abandoned the security mechs and made his way to the CRDAA lab offices where he knew his quarry would be. He ignored the scientists that attempted to question where he’d been, even brushing off Rhodium, though he spared her a look that promised he would explain later. 

The door to the Director’s office opened to admit him. He met the cold red optic with his own steely blue.

“Prowl.” The mech rumbled.

“Director Shockwave,” Prowl said without preamble, “as to avoid a future incident between myself and a certain security mech, I would request that my Fulcrum be left unmolested.” 

“So, your cohort-mate was correct, then? You have taken a Fulcrum.”

“I have.”

“Then he should be moved here directly.”

Prowl’s doorwings unconsciously flared slightly, “With all due respect, sir, I will be more inclined to relax in the environment he lives in now. I do not want him to be placed under the stress of acclimating to a system he has no idea exists.”

“This is highly irregular, Prowl.”

“Is it? Because I was under the impression that the protocols for Fulcrums were deliberately left loose since ‘each Sigma-series Operative is different and is likely to react in varying manners in the event of finding their compatible Fulcrum’.” He quoted the guidelines given to the scientists. “Unless those protocols have suddenly changed recently, there is nothing irregular about this. I request that my Fulcrum be left alone for the time being for his safety and my sanity… Sir.”

Cool, calm, logical.

And if forced, he would be backed by the other Sigma-series mech as well as most of the scientists.

The tightening of Shockwave’s clawed hands on the data pad he’d been reviewing was the only sign of his ire. His voice, however, remained even. “Very well, you make a valid argument.”

Shockwave contacted the Head of Security on the console installed in his desk.

“Highline, have the mech you sent to monitor and bring in the musician abort his mission.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Shockwave then cut the call. He looked up at Prowl impassively.

“If there is nothing else…?”

“Actually, there is.” Prowl said confidently. “Give me final review over the mission rosters. I have a tac-net that should be utilized for such things.” He did not add that the rosters had been steadily worsening disasters for several decacycles.

“Hmm, another valid point. I will give it some thought.”

Prowl nodded stiffly and did not push for more. One victory was enough for today and he loathed to spend more time in Shockwave’s presence that necessary.

He left the offices and headed towards the medbay. The severity of Megatron’s injuries meant there was an 82.34% chance he was still there.

Prowl sent a soft nudge to both his sibling bonds to let them know he was back. He often wondered, as he did now, if the bonds between the three of them were what allowed them to survive when the rest of the C-Series had extinguished. Smokescreen gave a lazy nudge back in response while Bluestreak’s answer was a long, convoluted wash of excitement/worry/happy/affection. 

Rhodium fell in step beside him.

“So, is Smokescreen’s glee to be believed?”

“That would depend on what he told you.” Prowl answered dryly.

“That he found you in a, ahem, compromising position with your Fulcrum.”

“Seeing as how there is less than a 12% chance he told anybot beyond you and Bluestreak that, I won’t be forced to deactivate his vocalizer.”

Rhodium just giggled, sounding like a femme half her age. She was well-used to the dynamic between the brothers. “No, but since Bluestreak knows, it’s likely that the Twins know as well.”

He flicked his doorwings in aggravation, “Of course.”

Though he couldn’t stay mad long while thinking about Jazz.

Rhodium’s EMF gave his a friendly nudge. When he looked over at her questioningly, she just smiled at him.

“You’re happy. I’m glad.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the medbay.

 

Megatron was in recharge when Prowl got there. He wasn’t alone. It was impossible to miss the bright blue and red frame of Orion tucked against the silver mech’s uninjured side. One soft, blue optic onlined and caught Prowl’s covertly. A timid ping for his comm was immediately accepted.

Prowl allowed Pharma to run an uncomfortable medical scan in exchange for visiting time, though the medic warned him not to wake Megatron unless absolutely necessary. The Praxian sat next to the berth and murmured to Orion. 

“How is he?” :What’s wrong?:

It took Orion a moment to answer, unused to communicating two ways at once. “Recovering. You saved his life. Thank you.” :Megatron says that it’s not safe to talk openly in here.:

“Technically, the Twins saved his life, but you’re welcome. I would do so again without hesitation.” :I agree with him on that. Has something happened?:

Orion’s servo curled anxiously around a protruding armor plate on Megatron’s chest. “He trusts you.” :There are bots watching me. Watching him. I feel like something bad is about to happen, but I don’t know what.:

“And I him.” :I will look into it.: Prowl promised. :Don’t worry. Megatron would do anything to protect you.:

Orion gave a shuddery sigh, turning into Megatron’s side more tightly. :That’s what I’m afraid of.:


	10. Information Gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl does a little recon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. This chapter fought me so hard. Sorry it's short. Next chapter should have more action in it.

Orion was being stalked. That much was clear to Prowl as he watched the data clerk’s progression through his daily routine for the next few cycles. It was never the same mech, but it was apparent even through the hacked recordings he had access to. After reviewing several cycles of recordings he’d spotted the patterns and odd behavior. 

Smokescreen was actually better at hacking than Prowl, so he had put his cohort-mate to the task. The red and blue mech took to his request with an unholy sort of glee that would have been worrying if Prowl hadn’t know him. With Smokescreen’s expertise, they set up secondary recordings from the lab’s cameras that fed to a datapad that lived in Prowl’s subspace.

Now he had an issue.

Orion wasn’t the only Fulcrum being followed. In fact, with the notable exception of Bluestreak and the Twins, all of them seemed to have somebot keeping an optic on them. What did it mean? Why now? Most of the Fulcrums had been part of the CRDAA for vorns now. There was no logical reason why they should be under such scrutiny. 

There was no security tailing Jazz as far as Prowl could see. At least when he was around the visored mech. Though he wouldn’t put it past Director Shockwave to assign a watcher when Prowl wasn’t there.

Of course, now the question was: what was he to do with this information? He could not take it to any of the CRDAA staff as, undoubtedly, they would report back to Shockwave. Even Rhodium, carrier-like to Prowl as she was, might feel obligated to inform somebot. Telling any of the Sigma-series Operatives would just end poorly, as they would likely lash out at any perceived threat to their Fulcrums. (Already, Prowl had to delete several half-thought, violent reactions himself).

So, what to do?

Well, he would at least tell Orion. The mech deserved to know that he wasn’t just being paranoid. 

With processor made up, he walked down the hall towards Megatron and Orion’s quarters. He trusted Megatron would keep his helm in the face of such information if given in the safety of their hab with Orion next to him.

Prowl’s sensor panels caught the vibrations before the sound registered and he neatly sidestepped out of the way as an elevator door opened. Smokescreen came stomping through carrying a protesting Perceptor over his shoulder.

“-me down, Smokescreen! You are being unreasonable!”

Smokescreen’s engine rumbled unhappily.

“Don’t you growl at me. It’s not like I want to go to the conference. I have orders! I didn’t even know another one was scheduled.”

“Mine.” His doorwings flicked back as if to hide Perceptor’s upper body from prying optics.

Perceptor sighed. “Yes, you big sparkling, I’m yours.”

They disappeared into Smokescreen’s hab, the door and soundproofing cutting off any more of their conversation.

Prowl frowned. Perceptor was being sent out to another conference again? Doing such a thing when their relationship was so new was likely to be very disruptive to Smokescreen’s processor.

He wasn’t able to give it much more thought, though. His hud pinged with a message from the Director. The message itself was short and concise: _I concede your point_. The data packet attached to it was far larger, containing the details and rosters for the next several decacycles worth of Sigma-series Ops missions.

Prowl’s tac-net ran lightning quick processes attempting to ascertain the reasoning behind Shockwave’s quick acquiesce. There was a 36.47% chance that Shockwave had seen reason and a 54.3% chance that he’d been forced into it by a higher authority. 9.23% chance this was caused by some other extenuating circumstance.

He paused in the hall to take out a clean datapad from his subspace to download a copy of the data packet to review later. After placing it back in his subspace, he was suddenly struck with the need to see his own Fulcrum. Some combination of the information he’d gathered and Smokescreen’s display had him on edge. Unsettled. He felt the need to do something, but with no options revealing themselves to him all he was left with was a servo-clenching, undirected restlessness.

A quick, guilty glance down the hall at Orion’s door had him sending a short message to the mech informing him that he’d come talk to him the next cycle. Then he made a change of course to leave the labs.

 

“Hey, Prowler.” Jazz said happily when he opened the door to his apartment. “I didn’ know ya were comin’ over.”

Prowl’s doorwings relaxed from their high, tense positions. “I apologize for not calling to let you know.”

“It’s no problem! Come on in.”

Once inside Prowl pulled Jazz into a relieved embrace. The visored mech’s EMF pressed against his gently, suffuse with concern.

“Hey, sweetspark, wha’s wrong?”

Prowl’s answer was muffled into Jazz’s neck cables. “I am… unnerved. I feel as if something is going to happen, but I do not have the correct information to prove such a thing.”

Jazz rubbed the hinges of Prowl’s doorwings soothingly. “It’s called havin’ a hunch, sweetspark. Sometimes ya just _know_. All yar fancy analytics are good for some things, bu’ sometimes ya just gotta rely on yar experience. And trust wha’ yar intuition’s tellin’ ya."

“Illogical.” Prowl muttered sulkily. “It is not telling me why.”

Jazz chuckled, sending a pleasant vibration through Prowl’s frame. “Intuition rarely does, love.”

Prowl froze. Had Jazz meant that as…? Or was it just a nickname?

He pulled back from the embrace and stared deeply into Jazz’s visor.

“Prowl?” Jazz said, confused.

Confusion was in that crystalline depth, yes. But also sincerity, liveliness, compassion and...

A smile turned Prowl’s dermas. All of the stress fell away from his processor. “You love me.”

The confusion cleared, replaced by slight sheepishness. Jazz smiled fondly back at him. “Gave myself away, huh?”

Prowl pressed his chevron to the crest of Jazz’s helm. “I love you too.”


	11. Team Building Exercise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl finally talks to Orion and finds another reason to hate Shockwave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay. I introduced more characters... and then put them through hell... I'm a monster.  
> The poem used is a transformer-ized version of "The Bridge Builder" by Will Allen Dromgoole.

Prowl didn’t manage to get back to the CRDAA labs from Jazz’s apartment until late the next cycle. Guiltily, his first stop was Orion’s hab. The blue and red mech didn’t seem perturbed by the visit at the late joor and welcomed Prowl in with a slightly relieved smile. This just made Prowl feel more guilty.

After Prowl shared his findings, Orion actually seemed to calm immensely at the knowledge that it wasn’t all in his helm. He was now worried for other reasons, but those reasons didn’t include doubting his own sanity.

As predicted, Megatron had not taken the news of the “threat” to his Fulcrum well. He’d started growling, optics sparking white around the edges with rage. This had prompted Orion to hurriedly sit on his conjunx before he stormed out of their hab to hunt down Orion’s stalkers, still-healing injuries be damned. Prowl silently acknowledged the quick comm. he received urgently suggesting he leave before he became to object of Megatron’s ire. 

Orion’s soothing voice started speaking into Megatron’s audial even as Prowl backed out of the room.

“An old mech going a lone highway,  
Came, at the evening cold and gray,  
To a chasm vast and deep and wide.  
Through which was flowing a sullen tide  
The old mech crossed in the twilight dim,  
The sullen stream had no fear for him;  
But he turned when safe on the other side  
And built a bridge to span the tide.

“Old mech,” said a fellow pilgrim near,  
“You are wasting your strength with building here;  
Your journey will end with the ending day,  
You never again will pass this way;  
You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide,  
Why build this bridge at evening tide?”

The builder lifted his old faded head;  
“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said   
“There followed after me to-day  
A youth whose pedes must pass this way.  
This chasm that has been as naught to me  
To that fair-faced youth may a pitfall be;  
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;  
Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!””

Prowl didn’t stay any longer to see if the silver mech was calming down. Orion could handle him. 

A gentle nudge on his sibling bond to Smokescreen as he was passing the mech’s door only garnered him a sullen, frustrated poke back. He supposed that meant Perceptor had left by now. That was a mess waiting to happen. He should probably remove Smokescreen from active duty until Perceptor came back. Just as a precaution.

Once he made it back to his hab, Prowl tried to sit down and review the list of mission rosters that he’d received, but it was difficult to concentrate. That feeling of restlessness was still lurking in his processor along with the worry of potential clashes caused by a particular Operative whose paranoia might override his common sense. 

There was also a part of his processor that was proving to be useless at the moment because it kept hopping up and down like an over-excited sparkling yelling, JAZZ LOVES ME!

With his mind thus occupied, he gave up on the rosters. There weren’t any missions scheduled for the next decacycle anyway. He laid on his berth and resisted the urge to call Jazz. The visored mech was in the middle of his set at the oilhouse. Prowl looked up the poem that Orion had spoken and sent a transcript of it to Jazz. He would like it.

 

Prowl woke the next cycle to a message indicator flashing on his hud. Frowning when he saw it wasn’t from Jazz, he read it quickly. It was from the Director, stating that Prowl was to report to the training floor to run a new mission simulator. Prowl grumbled unhappily to himself. New simulations inevitably had bugs in them, which, in turn, cause helm-aches for the mechs attempting to run them. Namely Prowl.

It was a little unusual for Jazz not to leave him a message back, but it had been quite late when Prowl had sent his. Jazz might have been too tired when he got home. He might even still be in recharge, Prowl reflected looking at the time.

He scanned the list of Operatives he’d be running with and felt a severe frown take over his dermas. Megatron was on the list. He should be resting, not participating in a taxing simulation. What was Shockwave thinking? Was he thinking at all?

Besides Megatron, the list of Operatives looked alright. Springer, a B-Series Operative, was another triple-changer. He was great in a fight, unselfconsciously brave, confident and always ready with a dead-pan sarcastic quip to lighten the moment. And Nautica, a D-Series Operative, so intellectually gifted it sometimes pushed her to the point of distraction and madness. She was never seen without her signature wrench which she used both for its intended purpose and to ground herself into the physical world.

Prowl forced himself out of the berth and, after a quick wash, made his way down to the training floor of the facility. The training floor was located a level under the main labs. The space could be transformed into any number of layouts. Drones were used to hone the Operatives’ fighting skills. 

Along with a couple of techies, Megatron and Nautica were there already. She was fiddling with her wrench, shooting concerned glances at the silver mech. Weld patches were still very visible over his frame. He looked distracted and that restless feeling of foreboding came over Prowl again.

A hunch, Jazz had called it. Prowl still called it illogical.

“Good morning, Prowl.” Nautica said brightly. 

He inclined his helm with a pleasant doorwing tilt.

“I heard you found your Fulcrum.” Nautica said. “Congratulations.”

“How did you hear that.” Prowl asked with a frown. Megatron smirked which showed he was listening.

“Skids heard it from one of the bots in the lab who heard it from one of the Twins.”

The Twins. Of course.

“I did, thank you. And how is Skids?” he said turning the conversation away from himself. Nautica launched into an explanation about some project they were working on together. It was easy to distract Operatives by bringing up their Fulcrums. Skids was a theoretician that worked for the CRDAA. Nautica had zeroed in on him as her Fulcrum when he’d sit up late into the dark-cycles with her discussing quantum theories or whatever else came into their processors. When she outpaced him with her vast intellect he would just stay and listen patiently, letting her use him as a sounding board for her outlandish ideas.

It was at this point that Springer sauntered through the door. The techies interrupted Nautica’s Bluestreak-like river of words to tell them the parameters for the simulation.

The training floor would be set up as a small labyrinth and the four of them would need to navigate through it and the drones set to stop them to get to a conduit that needed to be repaired. Well, at least the roster made sense for the simulation. Springer and Megatron as frontliners, Prowl to navigate the maze and predict the drones’ movements, and Nautica to fix the end goal. 

It seemed logical.

The techies wished them good luck and entered the control room of the training floor to start the simulation and monitor their progress.

The four of them waited for the large room to rearrange itself, walls unfolding from the floor and ceiling. At the end of the shuffling they were faced with three corridors. A set of beeps sounded, alerting them to the start of the simulation. 

“Where to, All-Seeing One?” Springer said lightly with a glance at Prowl. 

“I am a tactician, not an oracle.” The doorwinged mech huffed and ran a quick calculation. “86.5% chance that we need to go this way.” he pointed to the leftmost corridor.

“Ha.” Megatron said walking past him to start down the hallway he’d indicated. “I’d trust you more than an oracle any cycle. Perhaps you should start up a side business. Prowl’s Percentage Prophecies.” 

Springer laughed, taking point beside him while Nautica giggled.

“Hilarious.” Prowl said flatly. “I believe I will leave the prophecies to the fortunetellers.” 

They encountered the first few drones two turns into the maze. Springer and Megatron took them out with little trouble. A turn later, one tried to sneak up on them from behind, but Prowl felt it coming with his sensor panels and signaled to Nautica who shot it with her blaster.

They were doing well so far, and Prowl had just had the thought cross his processor that things were going a little too well when a flash of black and white down a hall they were passing caught his optic. He stopped dead, processing what he’d just seen. It was impossible. That had looked like…

In front of him Springer also came to an abrupt halt. It was a good thing Prowl had stopped first or he might have crashed right into the green mech’s backplates.

“Hot Rod? What are you doing down here? It’s dangerous.”

Prowl shook off his surprised stupor and peered around Springer. Sure enough, the magenta mech that was Springer’s Fulcrum stood at the end of the corridor. He flashed a careless grin and ran around the corner.

“Hot Rod, stop! Come back!” Springer charged down the hall and around the corner after him.

“Springer!” Megatron yelled. “Don’t go off on your own! Something’s not right.”

Prowl silently concurred as he tried to comm. Jazz. 

Impetuous as the young bot was, Hot Rod would not agree to do something like this to Springer. They had met after Springer had experienced a horrible mission and had run off to try to drink himself to deactivation. Whatever had happened that night between them had ended with Springer drunkenly bringing Hot Rod “home”. The bot had come from a bad home life and asked to stay in the labs with Springer rather than return to the real world. Friendly and outgoing, he’d made friends with nearly every Operative and Fulcrum. And he openly adored Springer.

Prowl’s comm. went unanswered.

He and Nautica shared a look and stepped up to either side of Megatron. 

“I thought I just saw Jazz.” Prowl murmured. “And he is not answering his comm.”

Megatron and Nautica both attempted to comm. their Fulcrums. Megatron cursed and Nautica shook her head looking frightened. 

“My comm. is blocked.” She said, turning her wrench round and round in her servos.

“What the frag is this?” Megatron rumbled.

Prowl saw another teasing flash of black and white down a hall. He unconsciously took a step toward it; Megatron put a restraining servo on his arm.

“No. Think! This is a diversion. Something to throw us off and get us lost in the maze. If you go running off…”

“Then why can’t I reach him?” Prowl growled.

Suddenly, laser fire erupted from another part of the maze accompanied with an awful sounding howl.

“Springer?!” Nautica yelled.

Prowl used his doorwings to pinpoint the sound and urged them forward. “This way!”

He tried to comm. Springer. After a moment the mech answered. He sounded angry and shaken. :I’m here. Drone. It was a fragging drone! It took a shot at me while it looked like Hot Rod, but that interfered with whatever it was that making it look like him. I think it was a holograph emitter.:

:Noted. We will come to you. I am done with this simulation.:

:Me too.: Springer snarled.

Movement and vibration brushed Prowl’s doorwings. “Behind us.” he warned.

Nautica turned quickly and fired her blaster. The form of Skids crumpled to the floor. Prowl saw a tell-tale flicker as it went down, but Nautica did not.

The wrench and blaster fell from her nerveless digits.

Nautica screamed incoherently as she threw herself to the ground and clutched the greyed frame.

Prowl pinged Skids’ comm. urgently, berating himself for not doing so earlier. 

:Uh hello? What’s going-?:

:Skids, get down to the training floor now! There has been an incident. Nautica needs you.:

:On my way!: Skids said immediately.

Prowl went to his knees beside the hysterically sobbing femme. “Nautica!” he tried to reach her. “That is not Skids! It is just a hologram over a drone! He is on his way now.” He tried to pry her away so he could find the hologram projector on the body, but Nautica snarled brokenly and swiped at him, scratching paint from his arm.

About three breems later the walls around them started to shift and recede. The moment he could get through unimpeded, Skids ran up to them and quickly crouched down beside his distraught Operative and called to her coaxingly until she turned on her optics and saw him. She finally let go of the drone and reached a trembling servo to his faceplates. He cradled it with his own. She crawled into his arms and he held her gently as if she were made of filigree. 

“I’m here. I’m here. ‘Tica, I’m here. It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here.” Skids murmured into her audial over and over. Nautica clung to him, shaking.

“You were dead. I killed you.” She sobbed.

“But you didn’t.” He said. “That wasn’t real. I’m here.”

Prowl managed to find the hologram emitter and crushed it in his servo. The image of Skids crumpled, grey frame faded to leave the sparkless drone unadorned. Prowl vented a sigh of relief.

Springer walked up to them. Skids stood, picking Nautica up.

“Come.” Megatron’s engine made a low guttural sound. “I believe we are owed an explanation.”

As they neared the control room for the training floor they could hear the distinct sound of Rhodium and another scientist named Brainstorm yelling at the technicians who were manning the station. 

"They came with me when I ran out of the labs." Skids said softly.

“-the _frag_ do you think you were doing?”

“Indeed! Placing the Operatives under such strain could have very easily made them all go Feral.”

“We were just following the orders we were given! We didn’t know the drones were going to be programmed with those holograms.”

“Ha! Well isn’t that convenient.”

“Rhodium, I swear! We didn’t know!”

The door hissed open to admit Prowl and the others. The technicians looked over at them with no little amount of trepidation.

“We didn’t know.” One of them blurted out again.

“Well, perhaps we should call Director Shockwave and get an explanation for what just happened from him.” Prowl said coldly.

“I-I’m sorry, but he’s not here. He had business to attend to and won’t be back for a few cycles. That’s why he had us run the simulation rather than himself.”

The Operatives growled as one. Even Nautica loosed a weak snarl from her place in Skids’ arms. Rhodium snorted inelegantly while Brainstorm glowered. 

Rhodium spoke to the techies. “Go home, you’re done for the cycle. Get out of the Operatives’ line of sight.”

With nervous glances, the mechs did as told and vacated quickly.

With a sympathetic look at the riled Operatives, Rhodium said. “You lot clear out too, Brainstorm and I will see if we can get to the bottom of this. Go spend time with your Fulcrums. You all look like you need it.”

Skids left with Nautica immediately, Springer followed close behind them with a troubled look on his face. Megatron grumbled as he would have to wait until Orion returned from his job at the Archives.

Prowl attempted to call Jazz again as he left the labs. Again it went unanswered. The low-grade worry he’d been feeling ever since he’d woken that morning morphed into a bubble of panic.

He made it to Jazz’s apartment in record time. 

As he raised his fist to knock on the door he noticed that there was a small amount of damage to the keypad. He lowered his fist and carefully ran a thumb over the suspicious scuff marks. He tapped in Jazz’s code.

The door opened into chaos. The couch was knocked askew. Datapads littered the floor. A crystal lamp had been smashed. And most damning of all, Jazz’s beloved electro-sitar was hanging half out of its case, strings snapped.

And Jazz was nowhere to be found.

Prowl’s tac-net took in all the damage and built a picture of a home-invasion ambush. 

Jazz had been taken.

Black rage streaked through his lines. Tremors started up in his servos that grew until his armor plating rattled with the force of his fury.

He distantly heard himself comm. Megatron. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. 

:Jazz has been taken.:

Megatron cursed. The other Operative tried to call his Fulcrum, and when that failed commed. the Archives itself. Prowl barely paid attention to the half of the conversation he could hear. Struggling to keep the deep-seeded Defender Protocol from activating.

Megatron’s voice seething with wrath pulled him back to the present.

:Orion didn’t make it to work this morning.:


	12. Hostile Takeover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave's motivations anger everybot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jazz muse: "Is Prowl comin' t' rescue me?"  
> Me: "Yes, but he has to plot first. Running in without a plan is _your_ MO."  
>  Jazz muse: *pouts*  
> Me: "Oh hush, you'll be in the next chapter."
> 
> One to two more chapters left to go!

Prowl didn’t remember much of the trip back to the CRDAA labs. Most of his processor was taken up with theories, half-formed plans and imagined violence. He came back to the real world when he was stopped at the entrance of the compound by a couple of nervous-looking security mechs.

They attempted to subtly herd him towards the hab suites. “We need you to come with us, Operative, there’s been an incident in the labs.”

Prowl ignored the mech’s request, aiming to step past him. “No. My Fulcrum has been abducted. I need access to the Control Room to locate him.”

A high whine of pistols powering up had Prowl pausing, EMF flaring with affront. He turned icy, flat optics on the two security mechs. They stared back at him bravely behind their charged weapons.

“I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that, Operative. We have orders to confine the Operatives to their habs until the proper authorities have been-”

The mech who spoke went down first with a choked-off gasp of surprise as Prowl made a quicker-than-the-optic-could-follow strike to his solar plexus, rupturing lines and cracking armor. He grabbed and twisted the mech’s wrist cables forcing him to release the pistol. Prowl half-turned and used his other servo to rake his digits across the second mech’s unprotected optics, breaking glass. When the mech crumpled forward with a cry of pain, he dropped his gun in favor of clutching his damaged optics. Prowl delivered a blow to the back of the mech’s bowed helm. It knocked certain synapses out of alignment, knocking him unconscious. The first mech tried to stagger back and yank his wrist out of Prowl’s grasp. The Praxian unexpectedly let go causing the mech to go aft over kettle to the ground. Prowl flipped the mech over with his pede and delivered a kick that fractured back plating. 

He didn’t stay long enough to see if that took the mech down for the count. He moved quickly past them and into the compound. He growled when another security mech rounded a corner with gun already trained on him.  
The mech opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out but a static-y burst of sound as his frame was suddenly enveloped by crawling arcs of electricity. The mech fell over, revealing Smokescreen standing behind him with an electro-disruptor.

“Megatron filled us in,” Smokescreen growled, “and then rallied us to action.”

Yes, Prowl realized, an organized rebellion of the Sigma Operatives would very quickly spiral out of the security department’s control.

The black and white mech gave his cohort-mate a close look. “You are very close to going Feral,” he observed.

Blue doorwings twitched jerkily. “Percy stopped answering my comms. at the beginning of this cycle. He promised that he would, even if it was a message telling me he was busy. Something’s happened to him, too.”

Prowl nodded moving quickly. “I need to get to the Control Room.” 

Smokescreen’s engine growled angrily and he bared his dente in a frightening grin. “Easily done. Rhodium helped us get in. We figured you’d be needing it.”

“Who all do we have?” Prowl asked mildly, processor working overtime.

Smokescreen almost sounded gleefully crazed. “The Operatives, their Fulcrums, the half of the scientists that mutinied when they found out three of our Fulcrums have gone missing. We’ve taken over.”

Prowl’s engine gave an approving rumble. “I will be able to locate the Director from there. This is Shockwave’s doing. When we find him, we find our Fulcrums. Have any others disappeared?”

“No. Everybot else has checked in.”

Prowl set part of his processor on the task of ascertaining the reasoning behind the abduction of those particular three mechs. His tac-net was quick to point out the most straightforward explanation. Simply: those three had been the most vulnerable, away from the CRDAA labs and their protective Operatives.

Prowl and Smokescreen’s remaining trek to the Control Room was unimpeded as they passed several Operative/Fulcrum pairs patrolling deeper in the labs. They exchanged nods with Springer and Hot Rod as they passed each other.

“Prowl, how nice of you to join us.” Megatron said in lieu of a greeting when they entered. Prowl chose to ignore the slightly acidic tone. They were both on edge. The big silver mech stood in front of a bank of security monitors.

“What is the status of our compound?” Prowl asked.

Megatron gave a nasty smile at no bot in particular. “We are rounding up our oppressors and escorting them to the detention rooms as we speak. We can figure out what to do with them later. Nice work, by the way.” he nodded to a screen showing the main entrance to the complex. A couple of Operatives and Fulcrums were grabbing the two downed security mechs. 

Prowl’s doorwings twitched. “They were in my way.”

Operatives, Fulcrums and scientists crowded around desks or waited patiently along the walls. Bluestreak stood with his rifle slung across his back, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe holding a servo each. Every once in awhile they would twitch minutely as excess charge siphoned out of the grey gunner and grounded through their frames. Bluestreak’s sibling bond with Prowl thrummed with _support/ready for orders/allegiance/love._

Seated at the main consol, Rhodium, Brainstorm and Nautica were working at a display of multiple screens. Some screens scrolled through dizzying lines of glyphs, while others were flashing through sections of maps. Skids had a hand on Nautica’s shoulder strut, murmuring to her every now and then. Rhodium absentmindedly patted the empty chair next to her without taking her eyes from the screen.

“Smokescreen, the encryption on Shockwave’s personal consol is still locking me out. Think you can give it a try?”

Smokescreen gave a gruff sound. “I’ll get it unlocked.”

As he sat down and got to work, Nautica began speaking. “We got into Shockwave’s public computer. Pulled up all the scientific research he’s done to see if there’s a clue to where he’s gone. Most of this information is about us. The Sigma ‘bots, I mean. Strengths, weaknesses, psych evals. Nothing too surprising since we’ve been here since sparking. But each data set has a set of sub-files about their Fulcrum. Frame type, habits, observations. Just huge lists, even stuff like favorite foods. Real creeper stuff.”

A soft sub-vocal growl rose and fell through the room, passing from one Operative to the next.

“Easy, now.” Rhodium murmured unobtrusively. “The Operatives weren’t the only ones fitted with trackers. We,” she said with a small self-depreciating smile, “all allowed ourselves to get chipped when we began working for the CRDAA. Right now Shockwave’s is disabled, but there should be a way to turn it back on, as long as he hasn’t removed and destroyed it.”

A flash of inspiration. “Forget about Shockwave’s.” Prowl said sharply. “Find Perceptor’s.”

Brainstorm slapped his forehelm. “Of course! Perceptor’s is probably still active!”

“Frag. How could we forget?” Rhodium muttered, redefining her search parameters. A few moments later there was a confirmation beep.

“I’ve got him!” Rhodium crowed. The maps on one of the screens stopped flashing, singling out a large building.

“He’s at… City Hall?” Brainstorm asked in confusion.

“Or under it.” Smokescreen spoke up suddenly, digits still flying over the holographic display he was working at. “I’ve done a mission there before. There’s a whole underground compound.” Already he seemed both calmer and clear-headed now that his Fulcrum’s position had been found. Though his armor fluffed restlessly with the need to do something with the information.

Several Operatives began shifting in anticipation of a rescue mission.

Smokescreen’s doorwings flared out unexpectedly. “Got you, fragger!” He growled triumphantly. The encryption on Shockwave’s personal consol fell away. Rhodium and Brainstorm pounced on the revealed data.

Rhodium’s EMF was closer to Prowl so he felt the wash of alarm when she came across what the single-opticked mech had been hiding. Brainstorm was not unaffected, his optics going pale with horror.

“Oh Primus.”

“What have you found?” Prowl snapped.

“He’s going to use the Fulcrums to make more Sigma mechs.” Rhodium whispered agast. The louder. “He’s going to _force the Sigma code_ into _fully grown mechs_. Primus! The procedure he hypothesized only has a 10% survival rate! And somebot on the council approved it.”

The room was instantly filled with the sound of angrily roaring engines as every single Sigma Operative reacted. Enraged EMFs mingled and buzzed against each other like mecha-wasps. They buffeted and washed over Prowl as his processor latched onto the information.

_A 10% survival rate._

And Shockwave had taken Jazz nearly a full cycle ago. Plenty of time to start such a procedure. Plenty of time for the procedure to go wrong...

Megatron yelled for silence. He was managing to keep hold of his sanity through some miracle of Primus, though his servos clenched and unclenched spasmodically. He turned fiery optics on the doorwinged mech.

“Prowl. Tell me you’re not about to crash.”

“I am not.” Prowl gritted out. He had far too many important things to do.

“Good. We need your processor and a plan.”


	13. To The Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Prowl has a plan, what could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go!

Prowl put together the team going to City Hall with barely a thought.

Himself, Smokescreen and Megatron, of course. Along with Rhodium and Chromedome.

He needed Smokescreen because of his prior knowledge of the complex they were infiltrating. Even if he wasn’t needed, Prowl knew his cohort-mate would have insisted coming anyway. And Prowl wouldn’t have denied him.

Megatron was coming for a similar reason as well as his fighting abilities. Though even still healing, he would be able to hold his own should they have need to enter into an altercation.

Prowl wished they could have brought along a licensed medic, but Pharma proved to be loyal to the institution/Shockwave and was therefore useless to them. As it was, Rhodium had volunteered to go with them as she had the most comprehensive first aid training among the scientists. A tiny part of his processor tangented with the realization that there had ever only been one true medic at the facility. Something he’d never thought to question before. What else had escaped his notice just because it had always been that way?

Rhodium would also keep an open comm line with Brainstorm and Nautica at the CRDAA facility. Backup was a word away should they need it.

Prowl recruited Chromedome quietly. If need be, he could extract exactly what had been done to their Fulcrums. It was a grim possibility, but Chromedome agreed stoically, a flicker of support lashing through his field. As Prowl left him, with a warning that they were leaving in three breems, Chromedome knelt to gather Rewind in his arms. Prowl walked away leaving them to their privacy as he went to check on the final transport preparations. 

It was a small unassuming transport that barely fit all of them. Smokescreen would pilot it to the edge of where the underground complex began and they would find a way in through one of the maintenance tunnels.

Prowl frowned to himself. Something about this whole scenario was setting him on edge. It didn’t make sense. Shockwave was too smart for this. Unless Prowl was vastly overestimating his opponent.

He stepped into the open door of the transport and saw Megatron already sitting in one of the jumpseats. His helm was bowed, optics off, servos clenching and unclenching with restrained violence.

“Megatron. Are you with us?” Prowl queried warily.

The big silver mech vented in harshly and turned on his optics, grunting, “Yes. For once he and I are in complete agreement on our objective.”

That was good. Prowl wasn’t sure how they would deal with an emergence of Megatron’s alter ego.

Prowl looked up and met the worried optics of Rhodium from where she was half turned in her seat in the cockpit with Smokescreen. Prowl knew she felt responsible for their Fulcrums’ abductions. She, too, had been lulled into a false sense of security. Had not paid attention to tiny clues that may have warned her of Shockwave’s impending actions.

But if anybot chose to lay blame, then Prowl, along with the majority of the other Operatives, would be guilty of those things as well.

Chromedome paced into the transport followed closely by Rewind. Before Prowl could question why the small mech was there the minibot spoke.

“Please allow me to come with you!”

“You are not an Operative.”

“No. But I have worked in City Hall before, I can help! And… and more than that, I’m a chronicler. Right now, none of you “exist” and you’re not protected by Cybertron’s laws. I’ve been recording footage of all of you for as long as I’ve been here. I can prove that you’re more than experiments. You’re mechs that have been taken advantage of. I can get proof of what Shockwave had done. I have an old contact in City Hall; he’ll listen to me. Let me come with you.”

Rewind was grasping Chromedome’s servo tensely, fully expecting to be dressed down for his suggestion. But Prowl merely looked between the two of them, processor cycling through probabilities. He gave a short nod and opened a comm. line.

:Reflector, we need you on this mission as well.:

The Reflector mechs acknowledged him.

“I have called Reflector. You can network with them to record the mission while you stay on the transport with Chromedome. If we have need of your skills we shall call you in.”

Rewind had a momentary look of relief/disbelief cross his faceplates before Chromedome stated. “I told you he would find your argument logical.” Then he sat in one of the three remaining jumpseats and pulled Rewind into his lap. Prowl took the seat next to the transport opening.

A few moments later the Reflector gestalt entered the transport and squashed themselves into the last jumpseat. Prowl jabbed the button to close the transport door with his elbow.

“Smokescreen, we leave now.”

Smokescreen flexed his doorwings in answer and started the transport forward out of the CRDAA hanger.

“Rewind, you will be working with Reflector. They can install a small patch of software that will allow them to stream their audials and visuals directly to your hud.”

Rewind slithered carefully down off Chromedome’s lap and knelt in front of the three mechs. The Reflectors stared at him silently for a moment, then they each unspooled a data cable from their wrists. The first plugged his cable into a port on the second’s neck, the second plugged his cable into a port on the third’s neck, and the third offered his cable to a confused Rewind. 

Rewind glanced up at Chromedome questioningly. His Operative rumbled clearly unhappy, but answered, “This is how they install the software.”

The minibot took a fortifying vent and then opened a panel on his shoulder and plugged in the cable. He looked distinctly uncomfortable as they downloaded the software to remote stream their data to him. The moment he disconnected, Chromedome reclaimed him from the floor and put him back on his lap, arms curled around him jealously. Rewind just settled back into his embrace attempting to sort through the triple vision and sound he now had access to.

Smokescreen maneuvered the transport at a steady pace, though the tenseness of his plating and sensor panels gave away his impatience. Megatron remained stonily silent.

When they reached the drop point, Smokescreen tucked the transport into a small back alley.

Prowl stood. “Smokescreen, Megatron, Reflector, with me. Rhodium, you have comms. Chromedome, Rewind, you will stay here with Rhodium unless we call you for assistance.”

Each of them nodded.

“Move out.”

Smokescreen took them to the entrance of the maintenance tunnels and they dropped down into the dim interior.

They had walked a few mechano-meters when a faint _thrum-thrum-boom_ echoed down the corridor.

:What was that?: Megatron asked over comms.

:No idea.: Smokescreen said, :I didn’t encounter a sound like that the last time I was here.:

:Keep moving.: Prowl instructed.

The hallways were empty. Prowl’s tac-net and pre-cog could find no threats to their passage even though there were some places where there _should_ have been some mechs around. 

_Trap_. His processor warned. Though it had yet to be sprung.

They passed through the maintenance tunnels and into the underground complex proper.

_Thrum-thrum-boom._ The sound was closer now. And much louder than Prowl originally thought. Even with the sound itself muffled, it was causing the walls to vibrate. Only something with a great number of decibels could cause that to happen.

:Where is everybot?: Megatron sounded as wary as Prowl felt.

They crept down the halls of the compound eerily unimpeded. Down a corridor, a row of detention cells stretched out before them. The cells were fitted with stasis bars. Only one set of bars was activated on a cell halfway down the wall. A very familiar red mech was pacing back and forth wringing his servos.

“Percy!” Smokescreen said joyfully.

Perceptor was up and as close to the bars as he could get in a flash. Relief and elation flooded his EMF. “Smokescreen!”

“I’ll have you out of there in a klik.” The blue and red mech attacked the keypad as if it had personally offended him.

“Hurry! Shockwave took Jazz almost a cycle ago. Orion and I tried to tell him what was going on, but we only got to talk to him for a few breems. Then some mechs came by and took Orion about a joor ago. They wouldn’t say where they were taking him. I-I’m sorry, that’s all I know. I’m sorry I’m so useless.”

The stasis bars of the cell deactivated. Smokescreen immediately enveloped Perceptor in his arms. “You are not useless.”

“Did you see which way Jazz and Orion were taken?” Prowl asked brusquely.

“Down the hall to the left. This way.” Perceptor urged them in that direction, servo clasped with Smokescreen’s. The strange rhythmic _thrum-thrum-boom_ vibrated through the walls again.

“What _is_ that?” Megatron asked.

“I don’t know,” Perceptor said helplessly. “It’s been happening for a couple of joors.”

Prowl’s pre-cog categorized the sound as “vitally important”.

“We need to find out where that sound is coming from.” Prowl said.

Megatron snorted. “We have better things to do than find out where a noise is-”

“We _need_ to find it.” Prowl hadn’t questioned his pre-cog before, he wasn’t about to start questioning it now.

Megatron looked churlish, but nodded and let him take point. Prowl swept his doorwings forward and waited.

_Thrum-thrum-boom._

That way.

Prowl led the way through the corridors, tuning into the vibrations.

Louder and louder.

:Here.: Prowl indicated a door. Smokescreen mercilessly hacked it open.

Just before one of the Reflector gestalt could walk into the open doorway Prowl stopped him. A klik later an impossible loud, _THRUM-THRUM-BOOM_ blasted out through the opening.

Prowl stepped through when the vibrations had faded and saw Jazz restrained on a table in the middle of what looked like a wrecked laboratory. Machines smoked from cracks, furniture was overturned. Jazz was in the process of falling back onto the table from his back having been bowed as if he’d just been in great pain.

In a corner behind a toppled desk, Prowl saw a flash of purple movement as Shockwave picked himself up off the floor. Megatron snarled and pounced onto him with the force of ten angry predacons, sending them rolling across the floor. Prowl gave them no more thought and rushed to Jazz’s side. He quickly unlatched the cuffs keeping the visored mech attached to the table.

“Jazz! Are you alright?”

Jazz’s visor flickered to life, pale, but steady. “Prowl?”

“Oh thank Primus.”

Jazz smiled at him weakly, “Ya neva’ tol’ me y’ were a real-life superhero.”

Prowl press his chevron to the crest of Jazz’s helm and nearly sobbed. “I thought you were going to hate me.”

The visored mech tilted his helm to catch Prowl’s dermas in a gentle kiss. But then he flinched back, face twisting in pain.

“No, please, not again. It’s too much.”

“What is it? What is wrong?”

He barely noticed when Perceptor raced past to the only display that was left working.

“I can’t make th’ music stop, Prowl. I can’t make it stop, an’ then it jus’ explodes. Y’ haf’ta get outta here, I’ll hurt ya.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Prowl!” Perceptor’s voice broke through. “Jazz has the code. Shockwave managed to install it, but it’s never been tested on a sonic frame. It’s weaponizing all of the sound data that Jazz is internalizing.”

Sonic frames internalized almost everything as sound data. Meaning…

Jazz cried out and rolled away from Prowl curling himself in a ball away from the bots in the room. “G-get down!” He screamed. Prowl instinctively dropped, he caught a glimpse of Smokescreen pulling Perceptor down away from the display out of the corner of his optic.

A panel on each of Jazz’s hips transformed into a speaker array.

_THRUM-THRUM-BOOM._ Prowl felt his plating rattle painfully. He yanked himself up right, audials still ringing before the last of the vibrations faded away. He quickly unspooled a networking cable from his wrist and found the auxiliary port on Jazz’s hip just above where the speakers were transforming themselves away. He jacked in uncerimoniously and rolled Jazz back to face him.

“Jazz. Jazz, listen to me. You must let me in. I can help you.” He might have been yelling, but his audials were still off.

_:Please, you must trust me, love.:_

Jazz whimpered and lowered his firewalls to Prowl’s familiar presence. Prowl mentally embraced the shimmering personality that had turned mercury with anguish and pain.

He hurriedly put up block after block, some stronger and more well thought than others. Placing himself and his processor as a bulwark between Jazz and the Sigma code. Slowly, Jazz relaxed into his hold, both mentally and physically.

_:Ya’re a wonder, ya are.:_ Jazz sighed/sang.

Prowl picked him up carefully, cradling Jazz to his chestplates. He then turned his attention to what was happening in the rest of the room. He nearly startled when he realized that one of the Reflectors was watching him and Jazz. Perceptor was back at the display transmitting the data to Rhodium, with Smokescreen protectively behind him and one of the Reflector gestalt watching.

The last Reflector mech was focused on Megatron who had Shockwave pinned to the wall by his throat cables. Except for his clawed, purple servos holding onto Megatron’s arm to take some of the strain off the delicate circuitry, the one-opticked mech wasn’t fighting back.

“Are you here to kill me?” he asked in a deadpan.

“That depends very much on the next thing that comes out of your vocalizer.” Megatron growled. “Where is Orion?”

“With Sentinel Prime.” Shockwave answered simply. “He needed collateral. He did not believe me when I told him you would be coming after the ones who took your Fulcrums.”

“Sentinel Prime?” Megatron said incredulously. 

“If you knew,” Prowl said, “why take the risk of taking them?”

“I had to do as Sentinel commanded.” Something lashed unexpectedly through Shockwave’s field. Sickly and crazed. And familiar.

Prowl vented sharply. “You are one of us… A Sigma-Series… And you are Feral.”

“Yesss.” Shockwave hissed optic flickering rapidly. “Smart little Prowl. I always knew you would be the one to figure it out. I was the first mech-made Sigma. Coded full grown, they figured out _that_ mistake fairly quickly.”

“You have no Fulcrum.”

Shockwave barked a flat laugh. “I? I had the _first_ Fulcrum. My conjunx. But that mecha-animal, that pretender Prime, _took him from me_. Locked him away in stasis.”

And Prowl suddenly remembered. In all the vorns Shockwave had been director he’d always had a holograph of his conjunx on his desk. The _same_ holograph. And in all those vorns, no one had ever met Shockwave’s conjunx. Not once.

“Do you know how long I have spent trying to bargain for his release?! More and more mechs grown and coded for his Sigma army, but he always wants more and more-”

“Enough!” Megatron said gruffly. “Where do we find him?”

“Here.” Said a deceptively pleasant tone from the door. They all knew that voice. Had heard it from recordings since sparklinghood. Had seen holovids of the mech speaking to both the council and to the citizens. But nothing could really have prepared them for the sight of Sentinel Prime stepping through the door, one arm in a facsimile of friendliness around Orion’s shoulders while the other servo held a pistol underneath his chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I threw a little twist in there...


	14. It All Collides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl does not approve of Sentinel's plans for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have a conclusion! I want to do an epilogue, but as I will be at a convention this weekend, it may be a week or so until I am able to get it finished.  
> Anyway, thanks to all my lovely commentors. I don't have as much time as I would like to respond to them, but they always help keep me inspired!

Rewind walked as fast as he could through the halls of City Hall without calling attention to himself. Chromedome followed him closely. He really, really wanted to run. The moment the Operatives had found Perceptor locked up, he had convinced Rhodium to let him leave the transport to find his former co-worker.

Rewind’s authorization was old, but he’d gotten through security without question. That meant that his friend hadn’t retracted Rewind’s security clearance when he’d left. It boded well.

He ruthlessly suppressed the horror in his field as the images of Jazz from the Reflector gestalt flashed through his processor. Chromedome was close enough to feel the tiniest flux and put his hand on Rewind’s shoulder silently. The taller mech lengthened his stride to make Rewind’s hurried steps look more normal.

Then… Sentinel Prime.

Rewind gave up any pretense of decorum and sprinted down the hall to the office that he used to visit so frequently before meeting Chromedome. He barely waited for the answer to his knock before entering.

“Alpha Trion! We need your help, it’s an emergency!”

The ancient council mech looked up from his desk full of datapads curiously. “Rewind? I haven’t seen you in vorns. What-?”

“Please there’s no time!” Words started tumbling from Rewind’s vocalizer unchecked. He didn’t know how long the Operatives could stall the Prime. “Sentinel Prime has a mech hostage. He’s trying to raise an army. He’s been funding experiments on mechs for vorns!”

“Rewind slow down, what are you talking about? Experiments? Sentinel with a hostage?”

The minibot shot Chromedome a helpless look.

“We can show you evidence.” Chromedome said calmly, rolling with the new information, though his field flashed with repressed agitation. 

“Who are you?” Alpha Trion asked in confusion.

Chromedome transformed his digits into their needle forms. “I am one of the experiments.”

Alpha Trion recoiled slightly. He looked at Rewind with pale optics.

The minibot walked around the desk and uncoiled the networking cable from his wrist. He offered it to the old mech. “Please, sir. Please trust me. I’m scared that somebot is about to get killed.”

After a long measured look, a data port opened on Alpha Trion’s arm.

“Thank you.” Rewind said in a rush. He plugged in and readied the bank of information that he’d accrued, including the newest images from the Reflector gestalt. Just before he released it he said quietly. “I apologize for this in advance, sir.”

Before the old mech could question the statement Rewind sent it through and waited restlessly as Alpha Trion’s optics whited out. They could only wait for the mech’s processor to catch up with the information. With any luck (and a quick prayer to Primus), it wouldn’t take long.

 

Orion was doing his best to hide how he was shaking, but Prowl could see the minute trembles of his plating.

Prowl’s tac-net took in the tableau of mechs he was part of. Himself and Smokescreen, impaired by the need to protect their respective Fulcrums. Perceptor was not a fighter and Jazz was still reeling from the implanted Sigma code. The Reflector gestalt could fight under duress, but that wasn’t their best attribute, and they were doing an important job in recording the encounter. Though Megatron had shifted his focus to the Prime, his servos were still literally full of keeping Shockwave in place. 

In short, they were at a disadvantage.

“You!” Megatron snarled. “Release Orion!”

“Or what?” Sentinel asked mildly. “You’ll kill Shockwave? He is an outdated model anyway.”

Megatron growled, more upset by the loss of leverage than by the words. Though he still didn’t relent his hold on the purple mech.

“Orion?”

“I’m okay, Megatron.” he whispered shakily.

“I must say,” Sentinel said conversationally. “I didn’t realize the level of devotion these three would inspire. I’m a little jealous, to tell you the truth. Imagine how invincible a mech would be with such loyal soldiers.” He stepped more fully into the room, Orion an unwilling attachment. 

Prowl felt Jazz shift subtly in his arms. _:We gotta get Orion away from Aft-head Prime. He’s t’ the big silver guy what I am to ya, right?:_

_:Yes.:_

Sentinel continued, unaware of the chatter going over the hardline. “Your little rebellion was unexpected, but reasonable I suppose, given what I’ve recently learned about Fulcrums. We’ll just have to do a bit of restructuring now. Official barracks for you Sigma-Series and a nice furnished wing at my estate for your Fulcrums. Then I can introduce the Primal Army formally to Cybertron.”

The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place in Prowl’s processor.

“All those missions. They were from you. Taking out political rivals. Stealing information. We were doing your dirty work.”

The Prime just smiled at him.

“I’ll make sure your Fulcrums are well cared for. And you will have visiting rights, of course. I look forward to getting to know them as well as you. Orion here is quite nice to have around, actually. That blasted artifact is being silent and cooperative for once. What do you think, Megatron? Perhaps you can share him with me.”

Megatron dropped Shockwave and took one thunderous, murderous step forward before Sentinel’s grip on Orion made him stop short.

As if he hadn’t just baited the mech, Sentinel said, “Now then, I think Perceptor and Jazz should come with me.”

Smokescreen growled deeply in his chest and Prowl’s doorwings flared.

“None of that.” Sentinel said. Still pleasant, still mild. It was beginning to grate on Prowl’s nerves. “Your Fulcrums either walk to my side, or,” he pressed the pistol more harshly into Orion’s neck cables causing the mech to loose an involuntary whimper of discomfort, “I will have Megatron retrieve them from you.” 

The silver mech’s EMF was a chaotic storm of horror, fury and outrage. 

“Don’t...” Jazz croaked out softly. “Don’t hurt ‘em, like tha’. Prowl, let me down.”

Wordless denial rang down their connection.

_:Trust me, Prowl, it’s going t’ be okay.:_ Jazz whispered across the hardline, _:...Let the music play.:_

A flash of what Jazz was planning blinked in front of his processor. He didn’t like it, but…

Prowl carefully set Jazz on his pedes, covertly disconnecting himself from his musician and taking his blocks against the Sigma code with him.

“Prowl! What are you doing?!” Smokescreen yelled, outraged.

Prowl said nothing, just sent a reassuring wave of confidence to his cohort-mate even though he had his own misgivings. He watched out of the corner of his optic as Perceptor experienced some sort of epiphany and quickly masked it. Fortunately, Sentinel’s attention was on Jazz. Perceptor squeezed Smokescreen’s servos between his own, murmured something into his audial and then pulled his servos free. He slowly walked forward with Jazz.

“I see that you two choose intelligent Fulcrums.” Sentinel said, a triumphant look in his optics.

Jazz’s plating shivered with trembles. When he was just out of reach he stopped. The panels on his hips transformed.

“What are you doing?” Sentinel said flatly.

“Didn’t Shockwave tell ya? He gave me th’ code.”

Several things happened at once.

Sentinel swung the pistol towards Jazz. Two more panels on Jazz’s shoulders transformed flashing a brilliant spectrum of light right into the Prime’s optics. Perceptor lunged forward and dragged Orion out of the mech’s faltered grip and down to the floor. And Jazz screamed as a torrent of audial shattering sound poured out of him.

_**BOOM-BOOM-THRUMMMMM-BOOM-THRUMM-BOOM!** _

Sentinel went down clutching his helm.

A distinguished older sounding voice rang out from the door. “Sentinel Prime, what have you done?!”

Prowl tore his gaze from Jazz to see an older mech that he identified as Councilmech Alpha Trion standing in the entrance backed by Rewind and Chromedome. 

“How dare you abuse your position! You were elected Prime to protect the populous of Cybertron, not turn it into your personal army!” Alpha Trion kept yelling, though Prowl predicted that Sentinel’s audials were so damaged that there was a 78.287% chance he couldn’t hear the mech. As such, when he regained his footing, he didn’t realize that he had an audience when he leveled his pistol at Jazz and fired.

The world slowed down as Prowl’s pre-cog glitched and his tac-net laid out the trajectory of the shot as fatal. There was a flash of blue and red. Jazz’s face went slack with horror. A harrowing roar of sound left Megatron vocalizer as Orion fell to the floor.

Sentinel’s face was twisted into a grotesque smile that froze as he jerked in shock. He looked down at his chest to see a purple clawed servo protruding from it. The servo opened, dropping the Matrix of Leadership and a spark chamber to the ground. Shockwave wrenched his arm free, single optic flat and uncaring as the former Prime greyed and deactivated at his feet. He snarled and charged out of the door. Chromedome pulled Rewind and Alpha Trion out of the way just in time.

“Orion, please, don’t do this to me. Orion.” Megatron was chanting over and over as he held Orion’s limp frame to his chest. It was beginning to gray at his extremities. His chestplate was a mess.

Prowl gathered Jazz into his arms sinking to the floor, he fumbled his networking cable back into Jazz’s port. Though when he swept through to put the blocks back up, he found several already in place.

_:I learn quick.:_ Jazz murmured with no humor.

Neither of them seemed able to take their optics from the scene in front of them, which led to Prowl being startled by one of the Reflector gestalt tapping his arm and calling his attention across the room.

It took Prowl a moment to process what he was seeing. Alpha Trion was holding the Matrix of Leadership. The artifact was glowing gently and the old mech was looking between it and Orion with something like awe on his faceplates. He crossed the space cautiously and knelt in front of the distressed silver mech.

“Your name is Megatron, yes?” Alpha Trion asked kindly. “And your conjunx is Orion.”

It took Megatron a moment to focus on the old mech. “He’s dying. I can’t- he needs a medic.”

“I’m afraid he’s too far gone for a medic, but,” he said quickly before Megatron could start raging, “the Matrix is calling him.” He held the Matrix up toward them. “It sees him worthy to be a Prime. A true Prime. It can heal him, but it will also change him.”

Megatron barely looked at the glowing artifact. “Yes! Anything! Just don’t let him die!”

“I need access to his chest, please.” Alpha Trion leant forward. “You must help me. Pry the plates open.”

Megatron did as instructed opening the plates as gently as he could to minimize further damage. Orion’s spark chamber looked ominously warped. Alpha Trion set the artifact into Orion’s chest.

The subdued glow of the Matrix of Leadership abruptly lit up like the lights at the Festival of Prima. Orion’s optics onlined as he gasped. He floated up out of Megatron’s arms. Light engulfed his form turning it a liquidy gold. His limbs lengthened. Mass filled out. Just as suddenly as it started, the light collapsed down into a single point and vanished. A much bigger Orion floated back down into his lover’s arms. Bigger, polished and _whole_.

A disembodied chorus of voices swept through their minds, inexorable, yet soothing. Commanding, but compassionate.

_You are worthy, Optimus Prime._

An ancient song swelled and for a moment Prowl heard it through Jazz audials and felt as if he might overload from sound alone. Then it softened and faded.

In the silence left, Megatron and Orion- no, Optimus now, stared at each other, uncertain. Then the newly made Prime leaned his helm crest on Megatron’s. 

“I’m here,” he murmured in a voice that had deepened, but held the same tone that he always used to calm his Operative. “I’m still here, Megatron.”

“Still mine?” The big silver mech sounded gruff, but there was an undertone of stress.

“Always yours.” Optimus answered instantly.

Red optics turned off and tension seeped out of Megatron’s frame.

“Don’t have to bend down to kiss you now.”

Optimus laughed shakily and Prowl knew the two of them would be alright. He felt Jazz’s arms tighten around him, joy and relief blooming in the other’s field, love flowing through their connection.

They all would be alright.


	15. Epilouge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping up loose ends...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally finished! Hooray!

Prowl sipped his slightly acidic energon at one of the outdoor tables of the small cafe he’d found in Kalis. The docks of the Rust Sea bustled below the colorful market terrace. It was nice to have some down time from his new job as a tactical advisor to the Iaconi Enforcers. 

Barely a vorn had passed since Optimus’ ascension as the new Prime; the first Matrix chosen Prime in several hundred vorns. And Optimus had managed to make several changes for the better in the short time span.

The very first thing he did was expose Sentinel’s corruption to the council. They were skeptical at first, of course. But with the backing of Alpha Trion, a plethora of recorded footage, and the tangible power of the Matrix leaking from his seams, the council were soon accepting the truth. Especially when they realized the full extent of the danger their lives had been in from the now-deceased mad Prime.

Telling the general populous the details of Sentinel’s demise was a bit more of a delicate matter. After several cycles of arguing and bargaining amongst the council and Optimus, it was decided that he had done enough good during his reign before he’d fallen to madness that he should be entombed in accordance with his rank and his death officially recorded as accidental. Megatron had been visibly angered by the decision, but had ceased arguing when Optimus had asked him to just let them put the mech to rest and to think of him no further.

Optimus’ second act as Prime was to secure legal rights and proper identification for the Sigma-Series Operatives. They were now full citizens. Some of the Operative and Fulcrum pairs had decided to petition to become part of Optimus’ retinue. He was still “Orion” to many of them, the well-liked and gentle Archivist, who was using his new power to help and protect them. It was only natural that they would protect him in return.

The third, and most contested by the council, edict that the red and blue mech made was reinstating the position of Lord High Protector to the Prime. And the council only made a fuss about it because Optimus immediately named Megatron as the recipient of the position rather than let them pick someone “more suited”. They had mostly stopped griping about that by now. Even the loudest naysayers were quickly shut up when they actually met the silver mech and he either charmed or growled them into submission.

The Cybertronian people were delighted with their new Prime and Lord High Protector. They were seen as a loving pair of rulers that harkened back to the Golden Age. Cheers and well wishes followed them in public whenever Megatron lifted Optimus’ servo to his dermas to kiss it or Optimus leant their helms together crest to crest. Already, there were romanticised versions of how the two of them had met. Fictionalized, of course. The details of the Sigma Series Project were still sealed to the public and would remain so for quite some time until it was deemed safe to release them.

Prowl and Jazz had decided to stay in Iacon, though not as part of the Prime’s retinue. Though, they were invited over to the Prime’s residence often enough that most mechs thought they were part of it. Instead, Prowl had gained a position in tactical advisement for the Enforcers, on his own merit, thank you very much. And after several painful orns of therapy (with help from Prowl, Rhodium and Brainstorm), Jazz had conquered the new Sigma code running through his frame. He turned the weapon into something controllable. Theatrical, rather than terrifying. Once he was certain he could fully master it, he incorporated it into his performances. His popularity began to skyrocket. His fans called him “The Living Instrument”. He took the fame in stride with his characteristic adaptability and grace.

A warm pulse of love to his spark brought Prowl out of his ruminations. He smiled softly to himself and sent back an answering pulse. A moment later he received a comm. from a familiar frequency.

:Hello, love.: he said warmly.

Jazz’s voice was buoyant with happiness. :Hi, sweetspark. Ya thinkin’ ‘bout me again.:

:That I am. How was the Gilt Hall?: It was a new venue that had just opened. The owner had practically begged Jazz to come perform.

:It was great! Think I might book there again. When ya gonna be home?:

:Tomorrow evening, if my calculations were correct.:

His sparkmate’s inflection tilted saucily, :Well, I’ll be sure t’ wait up fo’ ya then. Greet ya good an’ proper.:

:You are insatiable.:

:Ya love it.:

:That I do. See you soon.:

:Bye, sweetspark.:

Prowl sat enjoying his energon and the warm feelings in his spark for another few breems before he finally spotted his targets. He stood, dispersing his cube, and put his namesake to good use.

Shockwave. One of the last little loose ends of the Sigma Series Project. Something that Prowl wanted to oversee personally.

After the purple mech’s swift exit from the underground tunnels of City Hall, he wrecked a path of destruction through the previous Prime’s residence that let to a secret wing of rooms. Only an empty stasis chamber had been left behind unscathed. And the mech, himself, had vanished.

It had taken some extensive digging, but Prowl had finally uncovered who Shockwave had been before becoming entangled in the Sigma Series Project and subsequently going Feral for who knew how many vorns. A different name; a different occupation; and a conjunx, a lithe racer named Blurr, that he’d known since nearly sparklinghood.

And there they were, right on schedule, in the market.

Shockwave had changed his paint to a mix of light and dark grey with teal accents. His conjunx stood nearly a head and a half shorter than him colored a vibrant steel blue. The shorter bot had just picked up a packet of additives and turned to the other mech.

“What-do-you-think-Longarm? Want-to-give-these-a-try? There’s-sweet-ones-in-here-that-you-like.”

The mech spoke quickly, words running together. Prowl knew this to be caused by his naturally Sigma enhanced speed matrix. Prowl watched as Shockwave ran a gentle clawed digit over the prominent crest on the smaller mech’s helm. His red optic was soft and unguarded. Longarm had been Shockwave's name before he'd been given the Sigma code. Before he'd gone Feral. Prowl was 97.479% sure that Blurr had never known him by any other name.

“Whatever you’d like, my dear.”

Blurr grinned at him and turned to haggle with the merchant who looked boggled by the speed at which the blue mech was talking.

Shockwave glanced around, leaving the floundering merchant at the mercy of his conjunx. It was then that he spotted Prowl. His optic paled in alarm at the same time that it cycled wider at the perceived threat. His servos curled in a reactionary threatening stance. It looked like he was ready to scoop up his still-obliviously-chattering conjunx and make a run for it.

Prowl slowly turned his servos palms out to show that he was currently unarmed. He lifted his doorwings slightly and then dipped them along with his helm in a polite acknowledgement. 

Blurr suddenly turned back toward his conjunx.

“Okay-I’m-ready-to-go! Longarm? Longarm-is-something-wrong?”

The blue racer craned his helm to see what the other mech was looking at so intently. Just as Blurr’s gaze found him, Prowl very deliberately turned his back and walked away.

Faintly, he heard from behind him:

“Um-do-you-know-him-Longarm?”

“...No, my dear. I thought for a moment… but it was nobot of consequence. Come, let us go home.”

Prowl allowed himself a small private smile and continued towards the docks. There he boarded his transport back to Iacon and his bondmate.


End file.
